Threatening cuts
Through the bathroom mirror’s condensation
I’m sizing up my hair for harvest time.
Five years since I last cropped it back to stubble;
Left me looking like a victim, less a crime.
Thomas Hardy first gave me the idea
Via the character of Marty South;
And while my lot is not as dire as hers was,
There’s no money to be put where is my mouth.
One hundred and twenty five quid(!) last time
From the hair-loss clinic in Bloomsbury;
But, though the requisite length’s replenished,
I fear the recession might erode that fee.
Only so many harvests left to see out –
The same epiphany all reach, by grace.
Perhaps I’ll leave the beard intact this time.
(Saving face? Or saving others from my face?)
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