Hair begin to disappear. That’s bad. No one wants to look like a sea monster. These are just stories. Told by father or grandfather, depending on wrinkles. Look at me, the death says and mouth stops breathing. Black sheep see their friend buried in a brown soil. And we see changes coming to our hearts. Hair make us noticeable. The way trash smells to draw attention. We wonder in glass in the shoes voice and ponder over the dream of hen scratching her eggs. The council for wigs & false teeth laughs after a report discloses arable land is now barren according to the laws of age inherent in nature is of a famous hat-maker. A justice one can explain but don’t think of it when alive. A group of undersexed bald priests might arrive with chants. Pale faces and dark hair somewhere. They remind of wind passing through the rain. A game where you’re turned before the turning point and shaved firm. Now that the happy ending has been pulled off, settle down in the Café baldino and eat your words. Life chain has come unstrung. The hair-hounds set no one free. Resistance useless as brown bark of a tree.