As the non-sentient strands

Lose their noman's land,

Retreating slowly, 

day by day,

Back across my scalp.

I regret the lost opportunity

 Of never having had an iguana green crest,

Without the need for Infected bloody staples

Across the follicles,

At least, 

across the skin.

I can audition

For Tibetan monks

And

 Neo-nazis.

Perhaps ponytail extensions

Have come back in Samurai style,

In Goldilocks Rapunzel length.

Of course, there is the noble mustache,

And or beard,

A Dali's twiddler,

Or a Ming the merciless reaching to my feet.

As the gray winters my face,

Freezes my crown,

I begin to understand 

Santa's love of caps.

Oh well!

Hair today gone tomorrow!