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.