On The Appointment of Boris Johnson’s Hairdresser. A poem by Mark Burrow

He’s no Vidal Sassoon, of course.
He’s better described as someone
Who rhymes with Sassoon.

He’s no Edward Scissorhands, either,
He’d need scissors for that.
He arrives at Number 10, combless;

Leaves Boris Johnson’s hair cutless.
His specialist style remains dragged
Through several hedges backwards,

Forwards then backwards again
For good measure. Next, he joins
The Cabinet, attends COBR Meetings.

He’s scrutinised by the Select Committee
For moonlighting as a hairdresser
And makes a pathetic public apology,

Live on BBC Somewhere from the garden
Of Number 10, refuses to answer
Questions from queuing journalists.

He stands, runs his fingers through
His bold patch, and cycles home
Where the paparazzi await. There,

He finds a comb taped to his front door.
Then, two unpaired scissors posted
Through the letterbox as a threat.

Tomorrow, he will resign from this position
As ‘Hairdresser to Boris Johnson’;
Nicky Clarke should make a run for it.


Mark Burrow is a poet and playwright originally from England and living in southern Spain. His poetry has been published in the UK, Ireland, France, USA, and has been translated into Russian.

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