I know that my hair is goin’,
but I won’t succumb to wigdom; that’s not the plan…
wish I had the follicles on my pan.
It’s awfully light on top of my mane;
it’s lucky that I’m not really vain,
but I wish that I had some,
enough to tie it in a bun.
I get nervous when the wind blows.

I wish I could force recission
of f**cked follicles and strand-falling rife.
When shower water starts to flow,
I feel it cascade down my neck;
then the shower drain’s a mess.
Sometimes there’s strand in my eyes.
Even conditioner won’t fluff it up;
I just have to suck it up:
that less in my case ain’t more.
There’s another patch on the floor.

I used to have it shorn when it’s full years ago,
but I noticed then, in my twenties:
There was a lot less to clip;
my mane mass was a lot less fat.
I started to wear a cap
and engage in self-pity…
was feeling pretty shitty,
as fleeing fleece kept falling down.
I spend my days wearing a frown.

Hair so thin, pate skin you could see.
Hair so thin—loss was rife, causing me strife.
Started to mane-whine about my bane.
When wind vented across my head,
lots more keratin threads had fled.
Every time the wind started to blow,
I knew I’d lose hair, a lot more,
with me feeling, it falling, down.
Soon I would have a fringe and look just like a clown…
shimmering shiny skin where once was a bouffant mound.
Could have threads knotted for a rug on crown.
I stood my ground and just said, “No!
I’m gonna let nature take its course.
Okay, hair’s so thin; on goes the loss;
one day I’ll have a shiny head.
If I’m embarrassed, it will blush red,
But I’ll proudly show my lack of hair,
looking as if I had just used Nair.
My tresses no more will show.
I’ll shout, “F**k it—let that wind blow!”