Knots in my hair, strands of my soul
Wrenched out with each successive tug;
Not even the biotin could preserve this bond;
At first, a delicate swan, now a matted mess of a sheepdog,
A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde if you would;
Night after night, a torturous tussle,
Commencing beneath the shower head,
The old shotgun of steaming bullets,
Transpiring next into a full-fledged mane massacre;
My accomplices in crime, shampoo and detangler,
Slathered on not once, not twice, but thrice, a charm, or so I surmised;
Ergo, you could boast I'm quite the lathering pro,
All the more, a master in the art of evidentiary extermination,
In which any trace of entanglement is rigorously...