To my hair (A man mourns his loss)

In a fortnight's time it will be September
In a fortnight's time it would have been five years
But I would not take it any further nor grow my hair an inch longer
Thus drunk on vanity which flames my slighted anger
One cold Sunday evening I found myself at the local barber's
To once and for all cut my hair short and be rid of it forever.

There used to be a time when we got along just fine
I have to do little and friends' words were still kind
But Time grew envious of us and nothing I do would appease it
No amount of Dove would suffice nor would it be happy with just Rejoice
When lice made three's a crowd that was the last strand
The problem laid not in the foam, no matter how dear the brand.

But men's desperation outlasts our vanity
And their memory impishly feeds our injuries
I, a mortal recalls helplessly only when it was good
To drown out the insults when my hair had her own mood
All I have now is photos from the times bygone
When my long hair completes me like a crown adorned.

Alas, Time, the cruel joker is also the kindly healer
In awhile my hair grows longer while I weep a little softer
And I will be moved to grow my hair differently and style it a different colour
When we need no more than the daily dove and a little water
Until Time, again on a whim decrees it so
That my new hair grows obstinate and I, weary of it.