Haircut today - Poem by Ivan Donn Carswell

I am having a haircut today, it is not
a complex event requiring excellent
foresight, careful planning or indecent
logistical arrangement; not to my way
of thinking. It does, however, dictate
great diplomacy and tact, traits I lack,
and a commitment to scheduling.
In my simple plan having hair a trifle
long is enough to qualify, then let’s
get it on. So why we progress
through phases of deciding whys
and wherefores amazes, and comments,
presumably to mollify, like, it’s not too
long yet, and, besides its still winter,
wearing a rising degree of banter
which one must not wilt in the face
of but persist and press the case,
take the argument to the next phase,
even if it takes more than a week,
begin discussing which days the trimming
might occur; but not Friday, that’s sacrosanct
to shopping – or any other day ending in ‘Y’
except those starting with ‘M’, and not
this coming Monday. I am stunned,
it takes perhaps 15 minutes to shear my locks.
I’m an easy please, short is good and I sit
motionless, copping flack which will invariably
ensue, a captive ear which is ritually abused
with thick invective and pungent observations
prefaced by nothing in particular and ending
mid-sentence. The cuttings are increasingly
streaked with grey – and that too obtains
a wry observation, then I’m free to find a mirror,
preen and gaze at the hopefully new,
short-haired and youthfully restored me.
Alas, I must reflect that despite
my willing obviousness I have yet to receive
an invite to the barber’s chair. Oh well,
all things being equal, it might,
if I hold my tongue carefully, happen tonight.
© I.D. Carswell