He stands there, slowly brushing his hair,
Day, night, month after month, every year.
The brush stays young, his hands turn old with age.
The spotlight is on him, the mirror his stage.
Slow, smooth strokes, his hair is always perfect.
But nothing shows, no one knows what lays beneath the surface.
His imperfections are hidden always with a smile.
Not a hair out of place, or a stitch of clothing out of style.
His strives to look youthful, his face the image of a boy.
But underneath the surface is anything but joy.
The perfection of his body hides the flaws of his soul.
To achieve that youthful beauty is his only goal.
So he stands there, slowly brushing his hair.
Day, night, month after month, every year.
The brush stays young, his hands turn old with age.
But still the mirror will always be his stage.
