He gave himself a comb over

dedicated to Dizzee Rascal, if he ever gives up being a rascal to be a middle aged suit with a receding 'fro 

He’s in front of the mirror receding, 
late for a meeting. His hairline, 
when did that start happening.
He moves in, squinting, 
nose squidging against the mirror.
His eyes can’t take it up close, they cross.
Problem solved but move back, focus and
the forehead’s without the right hairline.
He strokes it, exploring -
it’s been there all along, fetal skin waiting.
Taking the razor he’d been using for shaving 
he rests it there, feels the pressure 
of a waiting blade, tension -
and he glides. A powerful line over the top of his head.
It snags, pulls at the growing wig of hair 
sprouting beneath the blade. He rinses, continues. 
Line after gliding line, down the middle.
He reaches for the comb.

Later he’s even later for the meeting, opens the door -
apologetic, terse. To sit at a table bordered by suits and paper. 
A handful will acknowledge his presence. 
He sits waiting, eyes daring them to laugh.