Her highness of Elfland was losing her hair –
the news was in all of the papers.
Her Royal Coiffeuse, she of world-famous flair
had taken to bed with the vapors.
Consultants were summoned from all through the land,
the broadsheets were pasted on trees:
“Beauticians, magicians, bring custom or canned
regrowth preparations. Help, please!”
The doctors examined, the pundits pronounced,
the lotions and potions were tried.
The experts were baffled, the newsboys announced
the lank locks still left her were fried.
At last, the great Wizard Panjandrum appeared,
though he never made visits of state.
He tilted his head, and he stroked his long beard
while Her Scalpness awaited her fate.
“It’s iron exposure and stress,” he opined,
“Twin banes of the modern young faery.
Make drastic life changes, avoiding refined
ferrous metals, loud music – and dairy.”
“Cut back on late hours, quit watching TV,
stay home every night of the week.
If you follow directions and pay heed to me,
you hair will grow back, long and sleek.”
The queen gasped in horror. “Give up my iPod?
Skip parties and anything fun?
Live like my grandmother, stay under the sod?
I’m Faerie Queene, not some fey nun!!”
So now she goes out every night with her posse,
though none seem to know what she’s called –
in Goth black, silver piercings, beautiful, bossy,
pointy-eared, green-eyed – and bald.