His hair's all brown and bushy,
backcombed at the back,
somewhat like a peacock,
he thinks he’s Jack the Lad.
Her hair is bobbed and silky,
it swings from side to side
and she looks quite school marmish,
and holds her head with pride.
Some folk’s hair is curly
and some folk's hair is lank
but kind of tells a story
be it blonde or black.
I spot them from a distance,
their shaggy, curly manes
that go to hide their features
but act more as face frames.
My own hair’s long and frizzy,
but thanks to straightening tongs
it kind of hangs repressed and limp
all lifeless, dull and wronged.
So I’m going to go shopping
to buy a new shampoo,
I reckon that I’m worth it,
old L’Oreal will do.
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Comments about this poem (Hair by Ruth Walters )
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