As the department stores
At night, close their doors,
And the staff have gone home to their rest,
All the products arise,
Shake the sleep from their eyes
And they hold what is called a “Stockfest.”
The beauty/hair section
Has its own resurrection.
All the wigs become quite animated.
Shoppers compared –
How they looked, how they fared,
And the heads they have liked or have hated.
Now wigs, I admit,
They have more hair than wit.
For variety, they take the cake.
From the wildly artistic
To the sheer narcissistic.
O, the folly of follicles fake!
The Long Blond, of course,
(From the tail of a horse)
Is the queen of this glam’rous display.
When asked: Was she proud
To rule over this crowd?
All she’d say was a bray or a Neigh.
The cheeky Brunette,
Well, she poses a threat.
For her tresses are long and luxurious.
Moreover, she flirts
With the bargain men’s shirts
Which renders Queen Blondie quite furious.
Which renders Queen Blondie quite furious.
There’s dark Lady Afro
(Manufactured by Sapphro)
With ancestors north of the Nile.
See her polymer face
And of pallor – no trace,
Except for her gleaming white smile.
While old man Toupée,
Who has so much to say,
Disapproves of these fashions and trends:
‘Young people these days
And their crazy new craze,
Out-hairing their hairy-lout friends!’
Nearly-bald Number 1
Never has any fun.
He prophesies doom and much gloom.
He’d tear out his hair,
But there isn’t much there,
And he bores ev’ry one in the room.
Young, nonchalant Spikes,
With his 15k “Likes”,
Reads his phone at a 2-degree angle.
He said ‘Hey, dude! Just chill!
Like, the planet’s here still.
So don’t get your tips in a tangle.’
The dark short-bobbed Curly
Is often quite surly,
And agitates for equal rights.
She complains: ‘You’re too Nice!
The poor downtrodden lice!
So put up with their itches and bites.’
There’s a wig for a judge
Who bears a big grudge
Against all those who challenge tradition.
The rich or the poor
Who will brush with the law,
To comb them all out is his mission.
‘Dig my cool Dreadlocks, man,
Wit’ de West Indies tan
On de face,’ said the Jamaican model.
‘I look like Bob Marley
When riding de Harley.
I finally got off de boddle!’
Then, amidst all the boasting,
The clamour, the roasting,
One story reduced them to silence.
Twas the tale of a child
Who had gone rather wild
And had suffered addiction and violence.
For a soft, short brown Rémy
Spoke with tears of young Amy,
A street girl who died from lung cancer.
The treatments bereft her
Of all the hair left her.
She’d hoped one day she’d be a dancer!
‘I, alone, was her solace
In this cruel metro-polis.
She clung to me right to the end.
Not one relation,
On this sad occasion
Would see her! I was her sole friend.
But in her despair
She prayed a sad prayer.
Was she hopelessly lost, God-forsaken?
Then a kindly old guy
With a smile in his eye
Called in to help hope reawaken.
From his Bible he read
That One rose from the dead
Bringing grace and forgiveness to all.
If repenting we take it
To heaven we’d make it,
No matter how far we did fall.
Then Amy believed him,
And gladly received Him
Whose love had brought hope to her story.
Then Amy departed
This life – but light-hearted,
And now she is dancing in Glory.’
Then vanity vanished
And pride was soon banished.
The hard, plastic faces were shamed.
For His grace makes us humble
And pride it must crumble
Wherever the Saviour is named.
