You go to the salon with great expectations
and come back home with a style
that you wouldn't be caught dead with
and instead of a great big smile,
you frown and wash that hair right out
and do what you can with it.
When you're done you look in the mirror
and really have to admit
that most beauticians are clueless
about what they have to do
to make you look like you.
Now most men don't have this problem.
They seem to be satisfied.
At least you never hear them complain
and you know they've never cried
over a haircut, a haircut?
That's probably because when they were a boy
no one ever said,
'Is that hair your pride and joy
or just what's on your head? '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you for this poem, it put a smile on someone was unhappy with haircut