Some are cone heads
– With a little bit of Patrick Stewart –
Alien life forms still unassailably human
And some are morphous egg heads
Like Einstein who never had a hairdresser
Just an extra dose of electricity
Depolarizing paths of neurons
And some are bald like babies – Like Gandhi
Even a versatile Ben Kingsley
When veins creep through the epidermis
And scanty black stubs border
The ivory frontier land

And others have leaping Pompadours
A little bit of Marlon Brando
Hitting his sweet spot
With some gin and tonic
And others have Manhattan Afros
Like the short black man
Playing point guard on the
Basketball court

And in these haves and have-nots
Of the “shorter-follicled” gender
Where hair only falls down
To testosterone and not to gravity
Man begins to age with his thicket of hair
When the good looks fade
And babe retracts to baby
– diving in a healthy dose of keratin –
To his forgotten diaper days

As the comb inside his pocket
– Held in glee in front of the mirror –
Transforms with age – when all one can do
Is to neatly comb
Clumsy strands of hair
With a flat broom.