The Yearly Hair Cut
When my hair grows too long to even care
and you feel the glare of everyone's stare
to the barber you go
a trim and yearly mow
and to find a place where price is fair.
My toddler gives my beard a tug
my hair has become a ratted rug
my self pride is at stake
cannot comb without rake
to take a peek at this long lost mug.
In a barber's chair is my new home
a quick gripe about how my hairs grown,
the buzz of the razor,
chunks of brown hit the floor,
a mountain of hair I once did own.
Your children don't recognize you,
you no longer look as if from the zoo,
my son loves it all cleared,
my daughter loves the beard,
hard to have your cake and eat it too.
With hair or no hair we still cuddle
right after initial befuddle
we share a joke and laugh
forgotten is Dad's rough
they both love to rub my stubble.
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