“Herman, cut your hair!”

Echoed through the grove

If he’d heard it once or 1,000 times

Herman surely did not know

~

He rather liked the way his hair fell

Conveniently obscuring his face

From his overbearing mother

Whose branches crowded his space

~

Yet each time the wind blew

Herman let down his hair

Became a wood percussionist

And head-banged without a care

~

He sent shock waves through the grove

Rattling all the way to Old Man Oak

But if his mama had it her way

Herman’s music privileges she’d revoke

~

“And with a proper haircut

He’d be the cultivated son I have in mind.

No finer a proper tree

In our grove would one find.”

~

But Herman much preferred

His untamed leafy locks

“All the better to drown out Mama’s moaning

And to hide when I mimic and mock!”

~

A sudden hum rang out through the grove

That quickly turned into a buzz

Mechanical clippers sent by Mama

Approached where Herman was

~

In one fell swoop it happened

Something rather strange

His luscious locks were swiftly cut

Now Herman sported bangs

~

“Oh, Herman, what happened?”

His mama asked surprised,

“I really liked you better

When your hair hid your eyes!”

~

His eyes, Herman rolled

At Mama’s stinging words

“I just wished she had listened

Then maybe now, I wouldn’t look so absurd!”