The moment his mom sat him
in the chair at the beauty shop,
he knew in his very small heart
he’d be losing his favorite locks.
The ones he’d been working on growing
from when he was smaller still,
than today, the day when they sat him,
and he felt just a little ill.
Not the sick you feel when you’ve eaten
too much ice cream and berry pie.
Not even the sick you experience
on a twisty turning car ride.
No, this was more like foreboding,
if he knew what foreboding meant.
It was the fear that his mirror at home
would never be the same again.
So for now best to think up a strategy,
again, if he knew what one was,
to make all scissors go away
and in their place put a brush.
Don’t cut his hair for a while now.
He’ll need some time to recover
from this time he was sentenced to the chair
and experienced such a trauma.
He’ll grow his hair for some time
and come up with a weird design
fitting for a teen age.
You might then wear the face
he’s sported this day
when his favorite locks went away. ©