Look at my hair
It's my despair
It goes everywhere
But I don't care
It's not exactly up there with the sonnets, is it? But I was writing from the heart, at least. As an anxious teenager I actually did care. For one thing, I appeared to have an unruly marsupial perched on my cranium. Mixed with the rampant acne, the girls from the grammar school up the road from mine were never going to give me a second look.
The problem was one of thickness. Stop sniggering at the back, there. As I hurtle manfully towards the wrong end of my thirties, having a thick head of hair is definitely something to be put into the 'Good Thing' column. Several of my colleagues can now comb their hair with a flannel, for instance. But it has had its downsides in the past.
As I stumbled into my later teens I spent a lot of time listening to music played at stratospheric volumes. In the circles in which I moved, long hair was de rigeur. And I was going out drinking with Kevin. Quite a lot.
Kevin was a friend, probably my best friend at the time. He captained the rugby team, skied, played guitar, had his own car and was built like a brick outhouse. Kevin had the hair of a young Robert Plant - a blond mane all the way down his back - and a confident swagger. Wherever he went, girls stuck to him like poo to a blanket.
I tried to follow suit, but where Kevin's hair grew down, mine just went outwards. It just wasn't the same, especially as I was whippet-thin at the time. I tried acting as wingman whenever Kevin and I went out - all the girls who'd failed to catch his eye would have to speak to someone, I thought. I used humour to compensate, which put me firmly into the category of 'Kevin's weird mate - the one who looks like a furry lollipop'.
Kev looked like a rock god, I resembled an extra from Shaft.
Eventually I got my Afro reduced to a sensible haircut one lunchtime, without telling anyone in advance. My ever-supportive parents never said anything when I returned home, but I'm sure I heard champagne corks popping later that night.
On Saturday I go to the lovely Liz who will adminster to my boring tresses. I will emerge the picture of respectability. But deep down, there's still a bit of me that will forever be a longhair.