Contemplations on eyebrow hair


From there to here,
From here to there,
Crazy eyebrow hairs

Here’s one that’s long,
Here’s one that’s grey,
Here’s one that needs a pluck


I find getting older is full of horrible surprises that keep popping up like little bags of burning dogpoo on the doorstep. And for the most part, these suprises are all “hair” related. Eyebrow hairs that are an inch long and grey, or the inch long surprise straggler coming out of my shoulder. Even worse are the dark hairs that seem to represent a bikini line that is horrifically lost, and might be starting a migration to my knees.

I’ve always had caterpillars for eyebrows, a legacy bestowed on me by my grandfather who had a enthusiastically bushy pair with a matching head thatch until his dying day. I am only pleased that the ear hair didn’t come with it.

I found the poem above scribbled on a piece of paper in a pile of junk I was tidying up. The pile had been sitting on the shelf beside my desk for some years, and the tidy up was an action only undertaken when the shelf collapsed on Friday and spewed forth its contents onto the middle of my desk.

I don’t even remember writing it, which is another indicator of old age – or perhaps a resurgence of sleepwalking with an added literary twist. Perhaps I should try and write the rest of my book in my sleep. I’d get more done than currently!

Anyway, I forgot I had a blog. One day I just forgot about it, and it’s stayed like that until now, when I decided to share a bit of extremely mediocre poetry with you. That’s because I am old, hairy and crazy. Enjoy.

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