Hair, Hair (Almost) Everywhere!



As a man begins to head towards fifty,

looking in the mirror is a wise thing to do.

Assess the devastation each morning,

before easing gingerly down on the loo.

"Good lord!" I often exclaim,

my face creased with alarm and sheer dread.

"Since when does hair grow "there,"

instead of only on top of my head?!

Yes, I've monitored the thinning and graying,

knowing it is all just a part of life.

But since when did it sprout in other places?

"Heaven help me, these furry patches are rife!"

I don't mind the graying temples,

they have added a distinguished air.

"It had to happen sooner or later," I muse.

"Suppose it's only fair."

And as my part has receded,

steadily moving towards the rear,

I've shrugged with resignation,

but not with any real fear.

Alas! Now the daily inspection,

has removed the blinders from my eyes.

"Issues" seem to abound everywhere,

littering and dotting my aging old guise!

The chest has now been infiltrated,

by strands of  snowy white and gray.

And pluck them often as I might,

I'm afraid they are here to stay.

Finally, I made my peace with them.

There are worse places they could sprout.

Besides, the alternative would take forever.

I don't have time to pull them all out!

But there are other gray areas growing,

that I simply cannot abide.

I fight them each time I see them,

refusing to take them in stride.

 Everyone's neck has hair growing,

in varying amounts and degrees.

But try trimming all this hair blind?

Can somebody help me? Please!

And since when did my ears grow hair?

It's just about enough to surely gag us.

All of those odd little white tufts,

coming out of that part called a tragus.


(Look it up - a real ear part)

Sure, I can deal with the mass,

near the tip of my crooked proboscis.

I snip those short and clean each time,

I shave my stubble and whiskas.

But on other bodily fronts,

I'm fighting a war of determined attrition,

to keep my back a weedless bare plain,

in the finest Husqvarna tradition.

It may be a fight I will lose,

but I'll keep waging it just the same,

because thickets and shrubs aren't as good,

as a lawn that is well-groomed and tame.

Vain? How could you tell?

Does it make me shallow? A bad guy?

Would it be better if I took a knee or punted,

admit that it's just not worth the try?

No, I'll keep hacking and cutting,

fighting this "good war" against aging and time,

prolonging the delusional belief,

that I am still living life in my prime.