I Wanted to Have a New Hair Style
I went to the barber this morning
To get a hair cut
Because my hair was too long
And I had decided
That I wanted to have a new hair style
I know it seems a little crazy
Maybe I lost my mind
Or I got a little carried away
poem by Aldo Kraas
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This Morning At The Barbershop
This morning at the barbershop,
a barber is busy with the hair
of a much older grey haired man
that he is trimming neatly
and a young man
sits in one of the barber’s chairs.
When I sit down to wait
the young man rises
turning to me
and asks if he can cut my hair.
I was happy to get attention immediately
while the other barber was finishing
with the older man,
as he looks to finely tuned to me.
My hair was smartly cut
with a pair of scissors
and the young barber
held his fingers
to determine the length
and I wanted it shorter
than just cutting off the ends
while the other barber
first took a hair blower
from a drawer,
sprayed something over his own hair
before he started to blow it in the mirror
and he then said
that he cannot go
to the bank to wait in line
with a head looking like Tut’s ass
and I saw my locks
falling dark brown
with dots of grey around me
and saw the other barber
combing his long hair
and smiled at myself
about the vanity of humanity
while I looked at myself
and were starting to look much better.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Haircut.
The Barber came to cut my hair,
I told him that it wasn't fair.
My hair had done him no harm,
Without it I would loose my charm.
The Barber he grinned a silly grin,
Said to cut my hair would be no sin.
That I should face it like a man,
But I'm a coward and away I ran.
Do you like sitting in a Barbers chair,
With him chopping away your lovely hair.
Once my head was full of curls,
Covering my face with twisty twirls.
But then the Barber came my way,
I was a child, I had no say.
Off came my curls one by one,
The Barber seemed to have great fun.
Now I'm old and very grey,
I'm nearly bald, my hairs gone away.
But when I see a Barbers chair,
I feel the loss of my curly hair.
You know I truly rue the day,
When that first Barber came my way.
poem by Bernard Shaw
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Erotic Hair
when my hair
gets long enough
after a month
uncut by
my gay barber
they become
so curly
like my pubic
hair
and women
and even gays
love all the curls
of my hair
erotic hair
and i am wearing it
as a crown
understand
i am coping up
with mid-crisis
and i like to
say
i got hair
and they are too curly
like my
(messy) sex life
listen, my life
begins at 69.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Want More Hair?
I'd love
I think
more hair
more hair
like a big
old grizzly bear
more hair makes
you manly
more hair
makes you tough
more hair feels
like carpet
more hair keeps
you rough
more hair
for pretty ladies
to rub their faces on
more hair for
guys to jealous of
and more locks that can
be flung
I think more hair would be awesome
but I wouldn't wanna overdo it
because too much hair would make
me like a little furry blanket
and I couldn't cover both of us
just you and that ain't fair
more hair!
poem by John W. McEwers
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Bad Hair Days (A Fun Poem)
Everyday is always a bad hair day for me
Mine is very curly, they told me it's kinky
I have a hard time combing my hair, you see
Have to visit my hairdresser to fix it for me
It was very shiny, as straight as can be
It was always like these since I was a little lady
Now, I am used to see this everyday
Ummm, I don't see what happened to me
Getting up early in the morning is not that easy
I have to have a ribbon to hold it, the neighbors might see
Never mind If they laugh at me and call me crazy
I have a God who loves me and take care of me.
Hey! I am elated this way, God created me like that,
And no bad hair day will ever make me give it back,
Yes! Truly blessed to have hair as pleasing as can be,
Think what you want, I absolutely adore it. He he he!
Hmmm..not a bad hair day at all...I love it..! ! ! He he he
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Bathroom Barber
I'm not a bathroom barber I've learned
gave myself a hair cut with my own two hands.
When all of a sudden I heard a loud noise
which took my mind off what hair to cut I had.
Then SNIP, it went off my head!
a large patch bald of hair is missing.
The dog looked at me puzzled and barked
and the cat raised her back and was hissing!
I must admit I looked a fright
with that large patch of missing hair.
When I got up nerve to look in the mirror
I even gave myself a scare!
I was only trying to save a buck
and give myself what looked to be so easy.
But with this patch of hair now missing
my head feels a bit more breezy.
I guess I'll have to spend the money
go to someone, where to them it isn't harder.
And never again will I pretend, to be a Bathroom Barber!
poem by Linda Winchell
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Hairbrush
how i wish my fingers were the bristles
or my breath were the wind when it whistles
thru your hair, thru your hair
i wish you'd hold me in your hands
and let me skate thru all the strands
of your hair, of your hair
i could style it anyway you like it
i could brush it straight or even spike it
au contraire! au contraire!
or i would wait patiently in my box
until next i would comb the locks
of your hair, of your hair
i would braid it tight, tousle, and tease!
or pull it back in a ponytail, if you please;
if you dare, if you dare
how often is it a man confesses
that he wish to run barefoot thru the tresses
of your hair, of your hair?
you may think me a little touch'd
but can i tell you just how much
i hate your hairbrush?
this obsession may be zealous
but can i tell you just how jealous
i am of your hairbrush? !
poem by Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
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Aish is all graceful
Be in ultra modern jeans, with hair cropped,
Be in curves with a bikini, with hair cascading,
Be in swimming suit, with hair dripping,
Be in top and middy, with hair thrown back,
Be in velvet chudidhar, with hair hiding the cheeks,
Be in saree and blouse, with hair loosely knotted,
Be with chemise on breasts, with hair permed and ornamented,
Be on cotton saree, with hair made to bun,
Be in half saree and blouse, with hair tightly plaited,
Or be in any fashion that comes into being,
The actress Aish is blooming and beaming,
What not is the fashion or style for Aish, all the grace?
19.10.2000
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I'll Get One Tomorrow
Barber, barber, come and get me;
Hairy torrents irk and fret me.
Hair and hair again appears;
And climbs like ivy round my ears.
Hair across my collar gambols;
Down my neck it wayward ambles.
Ever down it trip it tickles;
Yes, where it trips it tickles.
Barber dear I wish I knew;
Why i do not visit you.
Why I grudge the minutes ten;
In your smiling den.
Why I choose to choke on hair;
Rather than to mount your chair.
Men no busier than I;
Weekly to your office hie.
Men no busier than myself;
Confront the armory on your shelf;
Men no wealthier than me;
Gladly meet your modest fee.
And for a fraction of a dollar;
Keep the jungle off their collar.
I alone am shy and flustered;
Solitary, cowardly custard.
Shaggy as a prize angore;
Overrun with the creeping flora.
Barber, barber, you’re in luck;
The bell has rung, the hour has struck.
Sloth strong, the hair is strong;
I cannot stand it any long.
Barber, barber here I come;
Shake up the odorous bay rum.
Bring on your shears your scythes, your snippers;
Bring on your crisp electric driers.
Employ a dozen extra sweepers;
Bring giant harvesters and reapers.
I warn you a bumper crop;
Waits to overwhelm your shop.
Braber, barber, be verbose;
Be anything but clip me close.
Leave me razored, leave me scissored
Leave me hairless, as a lizard;
Barber, barber, single and scald;
Barber can’t you make me bald?
I will be the happiest of men;
And never think of you again.
poem by Ogden Nash
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The barbar down the lane
Most time as much a scissor talk
Call for long legs and hair walk
A thing that happens all the time
To every pocket that has least a dim
The man change a hair one
With smile and happiness morning in line
A hair enters and 'voom' disappears
The man inside with hair on repairs
Our barbar down the lane
Is a man with no shame
My hair I dedicate to him
And mine is down with all vim
The everday I wish to enter
And embrass the comb in my hair
This then I know it him
The barbar down the lane
poem by Henry Nii Ayi Cobblah
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To Much Hair
There is thin hair,
heavy hair,
There is gray hair,
and red hair,
then there is no hair,
I will be hair
for you forever,
every hair you go,
I will go hair to.
(4-11-07)
Aging Gracefully
You asked if I'd still love you if you lost all of your hair
Your baldness seems a tragedy: you want more fullness there.
It's strange the way we always wish for what we seem to lack
And anything that goes away is what we'd welcome back.
But hair-well that might be a different story all together
We grow it long or cut it short depening on the weather.
In time, it seems to him there's no such thing as too much hair
She spends her evenings waxing and goes shopping for more Nair.
It really is amusing as we old folks go to bed
She has too much; he has too little hair upon his head.
Perhaps a doctor may invent a way we all can win
By building him a grand toupee with hair plucked from her chin.
poem by Suzanne McNamee
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Elongated Hair
She 'done gone and did it'
She pulled it out
The elongated hair on my side
Oh how I did pout
It had grown long before
Back in earlier days
I had kept it short myself
using several different ways
After time had gone by
I wanted to let it grow
I decided to give it a try
and become a freak show
I'd let it grow down to my hips
or maybe to my knees
this hair could grow up to my lips
or at least to my kidneys
She'd noticed it that day in passing
while feeling 'round my tummy
I had thought she'd just been sassing
She said, 'I'll cut it off you dummy'
I did protest then to her notion
It smelled of sheer butchery
To cut of this hair in such a motion
would be a crime to both it and me!
Then came the day when it happened
While I lay in her bed so quietly
The life of my hair would come to an end
with a tug from her hand so quickly
I had mourned it for a moment
and I'm sure I looked sad
whatever had been her intent
I told myself it could not be bad
So now it has another chance
to begin a life anew
Elongated hair please do advance
Again I'd like to see you.
poem by Sean Furlong
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The Mess Of A Man
Meet a man,
A man named Harry,
He's in need of a shave,
And it's quite scary,
He's got hair on his chest,
Hair on his back,
Hair on his ass,
And hair in his crack,
He leaves hair on the soap,
Hair on the floor,
Hair every place,
Including the store,
Harry, dear Harry,
Do something, please,
Your hair retains odor,
And you reek of cheese!
Look at your cat,
What will you do?
Your cat's hairballs,
They're the hairs from you!
No hope, it seems,
For your hairiness,
It'll just regrow,
So live in your mess.
poem by Maddy Jones
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Haircut
I have wooly, wavy, woozy silvery hair
Cut just 20% you earn your fare
In bad trim down
Make sure I won't look like a clown.
With white cover she cuts away,
Her scissors, snip, snip night and day.
In mirror see my hair disappear
Trimmed nicely above each ear.
Finally touched my hair—few curls,
The more she accommodates I would adore.
Finish look seems more like 30% gone,
Hair wetted, scalped, I mirror no fun.
Next time another barber or good cutter
Better not scalp me" I sadly angry mutter
For well-kept hair on head?
I'd rather make more love in bed.
poem by Arthur Weil
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~Reconciliation~
A black woman migrates to Europe
War devastated Germany in she finds a tolerant white widower to cope
Years some later a mulatto is born with arrear
Unluckily the newborn not so towards white but usual spirally knotted hair
She grows up and gets because of her white father´s repute a government job
Ego came out spontaneous in black aggression as corn on the cob
Her work by job agency comes mostly foreigners for demonstrations
Majority a jobless black immigrant who has not the lucky touch of Midas parentage in confrontations
She looks of blacks down and she herself is black
When asked to justify says she is more white hidden traits back
She repeats her satisfaction from day to day
Until she went to a white german barber for hair trim and foam some day
Your hair is another says the white old barber woman
I have no experience and i cut not those hairs as talisman
Go to a black barber she added
They understand more your hair as they the same headed
The Accentuated Curls
To twist around is a crime
It will distract the follicles
From being so sublime
The scissors dance around my curls
Waltzing through my particles
As barber John around me whirls
And sings- a jubilant, Italian song
And other barbers sign along
To juicy, creamy melodies,
While mirrors show my vanities
And carefree and distorted
The hair will be rewarded
With admiration from the rest
All people will boldly attest
That my hair is so wonderful,
That my hair is so beautiful,
That my hair has much grace
And it distracts from that hideous, grotesque face.
poem by Sasha Ioffine
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Entangled in Her Hair
Her hair
covers my face
she
kisses my mouth
kisses my kisses.
She chuckles.
I stroke her hair.
She sways &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my chest.
She
titillates a nipple
...it tickles.
I run my fingers
through her hair.
She sashays &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my navel
& there...&
there...abouts!
I…almost beside myself
neither...here...nor... there...
Lost in the anywhere
of an everywhere.
I clutch
her hair.
She shimmies &
...moves.
Her hair
covers my crotch.
She
licks it
into shape.
She
goes to say
something
it’s on
the tip of
her tongue.
But, she says nothing
only: “Mmmmm...! ”
& smiles
...smiles.
I close
my eyes.
My hands
entangled in
her hair.
*******
TREAD SOFTLY
We rest on the bed
your head rests against my head
sharing the same dream.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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The monk with long pretty hair
I love this life,
Sworn to serve the poor,
My body honed to perfection,
With the life style,
The material skill,
The difficult chores,
And the blessing our the lord Buddha,
I will always honor him,
For he gave me the greatest gift of all,
My long pretty hair.
The others start to object,
Claiming my head needs shaving,
There just jealous,
I wear the orange robe,
What more do they want?
I’m always on time,
The best in my class,
I bet that’s why they hate me,
Because who could hate,
My long pretty hair.
Everyday I realise,
My hair is all I care for,
I made my excuses,
I need to be clean,
Because cleanliness is holiness,
Suddenly there’s not enough hours in the day,
I cut the training,
And fall behind on my chores,
To stare at perfection in the mirror,
My long pretty hair.
The Masters are angry at me preaching,
That my hair sets me apart,
As indeed it does,
I see the jealousy in every eye,
They hate me because I'm perfect,
Why should I shave my head?
Am I not the universe’s chosen?
Above all the others,
So what if I’m the better with,
My long pretty hair.
I’m banished from my home,
But that’s ok,
They left me a mirror,
Which I stare into all day,
I found my true love,
Better than my old life,
Helping and healing and fighting,
I rebel against my order,
Despite all I lose I still have,
My long pretty hair.
On the execution block I stand,
In all my glory,
They took my mirror away,
And dared to touch my hair,
Who can blame me for hurting them?
They deserved it,
And now I stand,
Proud and tall,
With my hair flowing free,
Caressed by the breeze
My long pretty hair.
And I now hang by the gate,
By my long pretty hair,
Final glory for everyone to see.
My long pretty hair.
poem by David Whittingham
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Hair
Wide cheeks? Let the hair hide the ears.
Broad forehead? Let the hair spills in front.
Dwarf neck? Let the hair in knot be up.
Lanky figure? Let the hair falls on shoulders.
Hair being dense is an asset to woman
27.03.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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