You’d think I was hair savior
the way she worships me;
as long as I prepare for
hairendous coifery.
She runs hair fingers thusly,
anoints my bushy scalp
with gel that leaves it mussy
until I cry for help!
I feel so hair and mighty
when she achieves “that look”
with hair that’s fluffed and flighty
as seen in picthair books.
Yes, I project the powhair
she helps me obtain.
Rapunzel from hair towhair
could nevhair be as vain.
Sometimes I get so weary
I desp’rately resist
the comb and brush, my dearie
wields in hair pretty fist…
to change my look completely,
reshape my crooked head.
But then she sighs so sweetly
when readying for bed,
that I forget my trials
and least of all my hair.
Beautician given styles
are not important there.
I guess it’s really worth it,
’till I arise at mom,
the mirror-oh, no, curse it,
looks like a unicorn!
But then, she gives me orders;
“Just wet it down like this,
and fluff it on its borders”
as she gives me a kiss.
She is my “hair” apparent,
I’ll give hair all I can,
at hair command I’ll wear it
because I am Hairman.
