Long Gone/ Hairy Tale.

A tale of a guy I once worked with, pretty explanatory, if slightly exaggerated.

Long Gone/ Hairy Tale.

There, silhouetted in the barbershop door
Stood a man whose beard brushed the floor,
‘Whip off this lot’ was the customer’s request,
And the barber thought, ‘well I’l do my best.’

He surveyed the job with sinking heart;
Where’d the sideburns stop and the beard start?
He always knew there would come the day
When he’d need a miracle- he began to pray.

After many long years of letting it grow
That bushy bountiful beard was gonna go,
But like a gorse hillside on a back country run
Clearing it will be easier said than done.

A wide toothed comb entered the hostile terrain,
It’s downward course drawing blood, tears ,pain,
After five dragging minutes the barber began to tire,
This was like straightening out bloody barbed wire.

Though the barber took the most painstaking care
That comb met resistance here, there, everywhere,
The customer was made of pretty stern stuff
But even he was finding the job plucking tough.

Sweeping down past the jaw, removing half a sideburn,
The comb shredded south, past the point of no return,
Then near the Adams apple it disappeared into the tangle-
That beard holds more secrets than the Bermuda Triangle.

Selecting the scissors that had served him well
He had a tentative hack at the whiskers from Hell,
And after forty smooth years in the barbering game
Those twisted scissors will be his first insurance claim.

Would pinking shears do the trick?
Or Shearing shears- click, click, click?
The barber pondered, shook his head
And wandered off to the garden shed.

That’s how the hedge-clippers came into play,
But they had no show of making headway,
From that day forth, forget taming that hedge;
Those shears have permantly lost their edge.

Next to hand came the heavy duty secateurs
Pruning imprudently near half hidden ears,
Just a slice of luck away from lopping one off
And looking painfully like Vincent Van Gogh.

But things were looking shorter and neater
After a face-off with the weed-eater,
Then, thanks to a skilfully wielded machete
The man emerges from the Yeti.

He had discovered a long lost chin
He selected a blade and ploughed in,
With grim determination and jaw set
Laid waste to the reputation of Gilette.

From out of the shadow a face was revealed,
A pink and tender blotchy be-stubbled battlefield,
From a myriad nicks blood started to seep
-It’s enough to make a grown man weep.


Now those cheeks exude a golden glow;
Ain’t seen those bristles for a month or so,
The whole face now tanned rich and deep,
Yes, that Remington Electrics earning its keep.

As the summer weather begins to turn
Suddenly we see some cause for concern,
Autumns close, he ain’t shaved for a week;
Soon we’ll see no more of his bare-faced cheek.


Gilt Trip.

A take on Jamie Gilt, a pro-gun horse-loving safety minded mother who wound up shot in the front seat by her own child. Not in a restraint, kid found a loose gun in the back. ‘Guns don’t kill people, guns kill people.’ So goes the NRA slogan [sic] .

Gilt Trip

Pretty cute kid,
But why ever did
Not someone or the other
Shake some sense into your mother?

Surely its wrong
To be riding along
With your precious cargo unsecured?
Toddlers are loose cannons, I’ve heard.

Still, she never
Could be called clever,
A gung-ho pro-gun Facebook debater
Who’ll shoot first, ask questions later.

Ain’t guns fun?
For this mothers son,
Bored, on a long drive
Excitement is a loaded forty-five.

Hard to ignore
Sliding round the floor;
He’s one quick tiny tot,
Grabbed that gun- like a shot.

Leaving guns in a child’s reach
Is a clear criminal breach,
What did Mommy say?
Shooting’s child’s play.

Well prepared for assault and attack
She got her own back,
A good Doctor found
One clean round.

As she’s writhing on that gurney
Does she regret her journey?
Shot to Kingdom Come;
Pretty dumb mum.