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A poem I wrote about when your bad hair day gets you a modelling contract, which I’m pretty sure has happened to everyone at least once.

Vist Patrick Scott's Profile


Today I woke up with a bad case of bedhead
I found out in the mirror whilst looking half-dead
My fringe disappeared and my forehead looked bigger
Because my hair had shot up, so I’m guessing that figured.

To flatten it wasn’t worth the effort it took
So I went down to breakfast whilst rocking the look
My brother was laughing, my friends shouted catcalls
But the dog didn’t care and kept biting my ankles.

I went through the day with some pitying stares
A few witty comments about not splitting hairs
But along with the abuse another thought struck me;
If it’s so bad it’s good, could I make some more money?

I took a few photos and sent out some flyers
To hairdressers and all the pretentious designers
Who took no time in replying with glee
“I love your new hair! Oh Patrick, choose ME!”

By the end of the day all the shops were ablaze
With pictures and posters of my famous toupee
Contracts were signed and the talk shows were booked
All because of the love people had for my look.

Thanks to my hair I was living the dream
Cuban cigars and lifetime free hair-cream
My bedhead was supplying a hell of a life
But that’s when my downfall cut through like a knife.

They proved it with science- it’s all been a lie!
A few hours sleep caused the hair they all vied
They called me a thief, a cheat and a liar
A few people threatened to set it on fire.

I lost all the money, they took it away
The fame and the fortune lasted not one more day
Rejected and upset I headed for home
But not before stopping to get a few combs.


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