King of the Jungle

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During the strangest period of isolation (in 2020 and early 2021) from the world of barbering.. many of us chose to become amateur hairdressers.. others, myself included, allowed nature to take it's course. And in wishful, wistful fantasy would toss our flowing locks with pride and the prospect of being talent spotted as the next Tarzan, or 'A' list celebrity wanna-be.

Sadly this never came to pass for me.

But when the first prospect of a haircut became tangible reality, there was a strange affinity with my fellow men as we paraded on the pavement, as if waiting to grace the Oscars with our homegrown talent. Short of nothing (except perhaps a red carpet, Lady Gaga and the strains of Paparazzi) but our pride and delusional musings. And so this little poem was birthed.

Listen to poem:

King of the Jungle Queuing with my homies Houdinis every one. No sharpened tongues, but scissors, To calm the shaggy throng Not all blokes in this queue, Despite lockdown's grooming blooper, As I stand here and review, Will contest my Bradley Cooper Alas, Delilah wins. It's time to shave my greying locks Hirsute-less head, Yul Brynner, Now the look my ego rocks Now a simple peasant With falling dreams, so vain. No more the Isolation King With glorious flowing mane.. My crowning jewel. Majestic theft! The jungle cries, her heart bereft.. As gothic curls now hit the floor; The swooning fans will be no more And yet.. Enthroned here, buys me precious time.. To formulate this simple rhyme And meditate upon what's passed As hairy shoes I have amassed. I dwell on more important things While scissors snap, and clipper sings Of friendship. Love. Of breathing air. Despite the loss of debonaire.. The blessing of recaptured choices. The privilege of freedom's voices. And now my head, so strangely free; Reminds of who I'm meant to be. Jinjagoliath 13th April 2021

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