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Raikers

Queuing up at 'Raikers' in the pouring rain,

Stand the silent 6 quid haircuts looking all the same,

Thinks Scissor Jim it's pension day, that always brings them in,

Stands the line of greying hair, waiting for a trim,

He opens up the little shop and they all shuffle in,

And plant themselves on plastic chairs,

He eyes the scruffy barnetts up, and sprouting nasal hairs,

'just a tidy up the usual' , ' i'm not keeping very well' ,

He damps down the scruffy mop of hair it gives off a musty smell,

He combs, he clips he parts he snips the transformation is complete,

The codger gets back on his feet, another punter takes his seat,

'the usual sir ?' - his scissors seem just a blur,

As he works his fingers to the bone, 'any products to take home ?'

'yes, I'll have a plastic comb !'

He's yet to sell a tub of gel, wax or styling paste,

A luxury for those with hair enough to waste,

Hair enough to style, hair to re-create, hair that's yet to know it's fate,

A blank canvass to orchestrate, a 'big hair' style that's up to date,

They'd leave with head and hair held high,

He'd change his name to Tone or maybe Guy,

Each work of art would tell a story, it would be their crowning glory,

Youthful vanity what could be sweeter,

Never settling to look neater or camouflage their alopecia,

But until then his strength to muster, to groom hair that's lost it's lustre,

And to try to take some simple pleasure, in idle talk about the weather.