It’s like a tangent bomb ready to happen
You sit in their black leather chair
That was once full of mold
While they pump the seat as if you were shorter than a pea
And you listen to their blabber
About which boxer was more famous than the other
And you get your hair cut having to hear that annoying buzz of the trimmer
As if you were in the middle in the woods without bug spray
As if you were punished
Having to lose the hair style you grew into
The one you created a bond with
It’s like a cop turning in his badge
It’s the only thing people probably know you by
It hurts to lose your identity
Don’t you think?