There really wasn't any "if"
I'd ever get a lockdown quiff
No matter if I'd care to whinge
I had no fear of Covid fringe

Nor could I truly be afraid
of hair too much to bun or braid
or control with any kind of caper
an Ivy League or fade and taper

I'm pretty sure that most can tell
that slicked-back wouldn't suit me well
Colouring is not my style
A Mohawk wouldn't make me smile

I could not dye in any shades
of blacks or blonds, so I'll leave fades
and highlights to those other blokes
who appear in ads for Diet Coke

And I am sure there is an art
to wear, with ease, a nice side part
I don't possess that Gaelic strop
to sport a searing chic French crop

Nor could I hope to snarl or tangle
some locks or curls from any angle
I dare not even try to like
applying gels in hopes to spike

A pompadour might suit my need
but my hairline does thus recede
to reveal expressive wrinkle-lines
more suited to a yak's behind

Side-burns too, alas, are out
That's really not the way it sprouts
I'm pleased to say, the door's long shut
for comb-overs or a bold bowl-cut

No mine just grows in spurts and clumps
Out from the sides in lumps and bumps
Shooting out from ears and nose
For reasons I can't diagnose

This sorry hair is not divine
and yet, I'll say, that's kinda fine
It does it's job and keeps me warm
though graying, wild and yet, forlorn

So, next week, I'll go for "Number four,
all over please" - I know the score
I'll joke about thinning on top
Then duly leave the barber's shop

Yes, time in his chair will be brief
But I'll gain eight week's of full relief
like a sheep well-sheared for the Spring
and what a joy that cut will bring

Written Saturday 10th April 2021.  The situation is now resolved.