I know its grim when using Vim,

 to grace your fancy hairdo,

felt tip your roots, your attributes,

from fancy streaks to blue,

to wash your hair, the wear and tear,

in soap saved from hotels,

use hubbies ‘Brut’ or pungent fruit

to mask the doggie smells.


I know its tough to leave it ruff,

for the scissors not to reach,

when a wire of frizz, analysis,

is calling for the bleach.

Its bad you’ll find to tell your mind,

that organic locks are best,

when falling hair, from who knows where,

then gathers in your vest.


I know its hard with kitchen lard

to condition all your curls,

when fashion Bobs and Beehive jobs

are crucial to us girls,

to find a way to stem the grey

to always be a winner,

not pull a face, feel such disgrace,

when looking in the mirror.


Don’t let your man with any plan,

 approach your cuticles,

no coloured paint for he’s no saint

 with pharmaceuticals.

But in these times, when only wines

 can alleviate despair,

still trust in me and you’ll soon see,

I’ll be back to cut your hair!