Oh vanity, thy name is Man,
Not always Woman, as we’re told,
You primp and preen impartially:
To save us all from looking old
(You order us to diet too,
On soup and salad, hot and cold).
How do we suffer your demands?
Well, there’s a tale that must be told…
My son went to the barber’s shop,
A Turkish place that’s all the rage;
His beard, a biblical affair,
Was long enough to suit a Mage.
The eyebrows were quite overgrown,
His hair was from another age…
He’d take the plunge and have it cut,
A brand new look to turn the page.
Next day, I saw the full effect,
He came back looking fresh and clean…
The hair was short, the beard well trimmed
But rather pink where hair had been.
He’d lost ten years, I have to say,
He almost looked, once more, a teen.
But, as he told me what they’d done,
He looked quite queasy, rather green…
They’d used a blow-torch in his ears
To singe away all lurking hair,
They’d waxed his nostrils inside out
Till not a whisker lingered there…
He’d never heard of ‘threading’
But his eyebrows are now neat and spare…
Then doused pink skin in alcohol
As well as trimming beard and hair.
Now, I might sometimes cut my hair,
Might one day wax a leg or two,
And threading’s easy with the knack,
To leave your skin all clean and new.
But blowtorching my ears? On no,
That’s something I will never do!
And as for waxing nostrils, well
You’d have to hold me down with glue!
He is not forced to suffer, no,
He does this voluntarily,
And not content with suffering…
To add insult to injury…
This salon, staffed by sadists,
Are not offering their skills for free…
After he’s toasted, waxed and plucked,
He’ll go ahead and pay their fee!
Oh, vanity, thy name is Man…
At least one of the men I know…
And though he calls it ‘grooming’,
He’s been groomed in ways I’d never go.
So if the hair upon my head
Would, like his locks, decide to grow,
I’ll stick to DIY routines
And give myself a ‘cut and blow’.