The Hairafter

Oh where do hairs go when they’re shed,
when they grow thin upon my head?
To some Hair heaven high above
where angels tousle them with love?

Is there a paradise where they,
my follicles, frolic and play,
with coiffured clouds to lay upon
and harps, like combs, to play upon?

A place beyond the cue-ball moon,
where God looks like Vidal Sassoon;
where barber shop quartet choirs sing
and they have feathered hair for wings?

Or highlight halos on their heads?
Is that where all my departed
long, lustrous locks of hair have gone?
To some celestial hair salon?