“NEXT gentleman,” the nervous scissors wait
To spoil the hair off some reflecting pate.
“The unemployed, Sir?—half of them are thieves,
Who soil propriety like autumn leaves.”
I wait until my turn. The crack of doom
Summons me from a plush-protected tomb.
“Short round the edge, but not too short will do,
And then I think I’ll have a dry shampoo.”
The scissors ballet-dance about one ear,
Some hairs have fallen down my neck, I fear.