For the first time in my life I feel like less than a man....well maybe the second time. I have come to a crossroads in my life in regard to what little hair remains on top of my dome. As a man of (in)action, I chose to write a poem.
It does not seem fair.
Covering on my head quite rare
My choices are quite a pair.
Should I continue, let it lie there?
Faking that the line has not receded beyond repair?
A combover used to hide the lack of hair?
An ugly toupee that I could wear?
Like a lame ass piece of flair?
Is this a fact that I should share?
Perhaps you were unaware?
Or do I shave it, do I dare?
Chase the last with a drop of Nair?
Kill every last piece that lies anywhere.
No longer a cute teddy bear.
Not a stallion, no strong mare.
Stuck in my lonesome balding lair.
Do you really even care?
Please, just don't stare.
Awkward, silence in the air.
Then, the old age trumpets blare.
Do you have some you could spare?