Its no fun when you’re five

Being taken to the barbers

Having to sit still

Not allowed to move

Having less life than a tailors dummy

It’s no joke

It’s not funny

 

When you’re five

 you have all the attention

span of a distracted bee

knowing you would rather be,

running through a field of nettles

on a rope, swinging from a tree

 

Anything but sitting in a red leather chair

in a special raised seat because your too small

its so unfair

because you don’t quite fit

your legs stick to the seat

as rivulets of sweat pour down your back

and you feel precious strands of hair fall

in the unbearable mid-afternoon heat

 

There is just the memory of the cut throat

Being cleaned, refreshed with a swish

on the leather strap

the feel of cold steel on the back of your neck

prevents you from having a nap 

 

 when at last the ordeal is finally over

there’s  just one more trick

the smooth oily slick of the white cream

applied by the handful

 woven and rubbed in with great scoops

your ready to holler and whoop

but then comes the final embellishment

with a flick and wave of the plastic comb

the newly prepared noggin

looks like a highly polished sheen of a beautiful stone

and all you can do is to squirm and push

until at last you released from that tortuous throne

in the sound knowledge at least

 for the time being you will be left alone

until next time when you will again have to face

 the razor, the comb and that red leather chair that’s the beast