Hair Raising (or Close Shave or Facial Follicular Failure)

It wasn’t expected when I was boy,

And when I became a teen, there still wasn’t a trace.

You think by twenty one I’d have a few strands,

But no. There just wasn’t any hair growing on my face.

When I was thirteen, I figured they’d grow.

By sixteen I was still waiting for a sign.

In four, I should have had more.

Instead of an upper lip and chin lined fine. 

When other guys around sported a goatee,

Now that really got my goat.

The bigger insult was a French beard; you see
It took me ages to even grow a mote.

But it really hurt when I’d see a handlebar

Or fellows with huge milk-skimmers above their lips

For I was still so very far

From ever getting to oiling my tips.

A razor to me was just sharp metal.

Shaving cream, a foamy dream of white.

Aftershave? Ha! It was just a bottle 

Somewhere on a store shelf under a light.  

Now, finally, there’s some semblance of fur,

Something like bristles that spurt now and then.

Hey, at this rate something is better than none.

At least, I don’t have to ever wonder “Arrgghh! When!?”