His hair grew longer, with each passing day.
His mother insisted he have it cut, straight away.
She dragged him screaming, along the street,
He dreading, the tight towelling sheet;
And scissors, striking his sensitive head,
Leaving hair on his skin, to itching led.
Suddenly in front of him, was his granny dear;
She told him of a place, where he would have no fear.
Could sit in a plane seeing places in his mind;
Whilst his hair would be trimmed, he’d find.
A blower would blow, all the bits away.
An hour later, with shorter hair,
Be given a sticker, to take away.
The Boy thought, he’d give it a try.
On meeting the barber, he wasn’t shy.
Sat quietly and still, in his toy plane,
Whilst the hairdresser cut, short his mane.
Ever after that, his hair is neat,
A boy with tidier hair, you couldn’t meet.