From the rich growth to the ridged waves,
A proud member of his craft lines his tools
And carefully hangs them off the table hooks:
Shears, trimmers, and electronic razors.
He sizes up the bush to envision his masterpiece springing to life.
A delicate pruning is in order, he surmised, as he went to task,
Errantly probing his mind on his next work of art.
Intricate precision knows no bounds on time.
With great intent, motivation, and focus,
This connoisseur for landscaping foresees the even trim—
Just the way I requested it, mind you—
In excruciating and minute detail.
My scalp is his tapestry; his mosaic;
His canvas and conduit for his skillful hands
To groom and saturate my thirsty head
With the care and affection of a gardener.
It was not until he handed me a mirror
When I inwardly sighed in dismay…
I paid him twenty bucks and left, without rocking the boat.
I grumbled, “Old fool done jacked up my hairline…”
