As I wake from eternal rest

  As magic twines throughout my bones

  I thinks of curses, and how blessed

  I am to have my boney dome

  Now when I lived

  My head was crowned

  By flowing locks

  That flowed on down

  down to the middle of my butt

  And you know what?

  I'm so damned glad it's not around

  Now I love my boney dome

  Not a hair now calls it home

  Now you know why?

  As I stare into the sky

  My dead bones, no longer rushed

  When the day is newly borning

  I now no longer have to brush

  A goddamned meter in the morning

  Do you know how much it hurts

  When your joints don't really work

  And yet you have to pull and twist

  And screw your precious bardic wrist

  For what? For others. For the show

  A whole danged hour doncha know

  Stolen story; please report.

  To style, tame, to twist and braid

  to make my looks look so well-made

  So artful careless, and carefree

  A pretty lie (not really me)

  And yes, it was my bread and butter

  Paid for my looks and yes, my voice

  But screw it. I don't need to eat

  The bare truth is bald is my choice

  And now I've got it, ever more

  And skip that hellish morning chore.

  And maybe, if I'm feeling it

  I'll one day varnish up my skull

  Cuz shiny seems a nice fun choice

  But serving others? Not my goal.

  Cuz it's already killed me once

  And so? My hair? The dragon burned it

  And gave me back a hour's time

  Every morning. (Hey. I earned it.)

  When magic consciousness comes back,

  My grave goods don't include a brush

  That fact alone is good enough

  To give my bones a morning rush

  I skip that step now, every morning

  As I arise from graven hells

  I sit up straight out of my coffin

  And go direct to learning spells.

  I rise now, pleased, up from my grave

  Delighted with my closest shave.

  If you're interested in hair, this survey is a very interesting place to start.