Sonnet to Getting a Haircut
Seated rigid, by white apron restrained, facing a cold mirror’s timid image, first locks are shorn, follicles sorely strained, as barbered tresses drift o’er your visage. Idle banter masks your anxious manner,| amid sideways glances at glinting blades, you conceal fear, blather banal answers, nervously squirming as confidence fades. On what basis, this trust in unknown hands? Why bare a scalp to this stranger’s scissor? When bald harvest rests in fickle command, sad facial trauma saps soul and vigor. Until it’s done, and your whole face sags slack; pray recall, hair’s not lost — it grows back.