Bald Is Beautiful
He noticed something curious in photos of past generations,
That seemed so rife among the male gender of his relations.
All his forebears were hirsute deprived, or bald if you will;
If this was an omen of things to come, him it didn’t thrill!
At age twenty-three he sported shaggy, golden locks,
As thick and curly as that of an asian wild ox.
He nourished his crop with pomades and tender, loving care,
Hoping he could forever keep that beautiful head of hair!
For some reason at age thirty-eight his forehead did expand,
And tufts of hair clogged his comb, this he didn’t understand.
He spent hours before the mirror arranging his sparse tresses,
And in this having little success, just adding to his stresses!
A shiny patch of skin mysteriously appeared upon his crown,
And ’round his ears little was left but clumps of wispy down.
At age fifty-two he had no further need for his brush or comb;
There wasn’t a trace of hair to be seen upon his glossy dome!
For his plight he bought a “rug”, more delicately put, a toupee,
But his friends said he looked ridiculous, so he tossed it away.
“Bald is Beautiful and so Provocative”, he’d oft’ heard it said,
Still, he hid his gleaming skull ‘neath a snappy chapeau instead!
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