The Girl Who Cuts My Hair

The thing I am trying to remember
Is not the thing it was
And the person it happened to
Is not the same, because
It's a game I like to play,
Which worries me. O, Lucy
I'm not afraid that when
We make a sign, out springs a life
That takes on any form, it's plastic
Your job in the hairdresser, is optimistic
You: don't listen to the News, 
Walk on the ground, occasionally,
Books cannot defend you
From the arbitrary, unless you have a tower
To keep them in. But, besides, a well, a book,
A tower - things remote - are not your cousins,
Your 'flesh and blood'. Cleave close to me,
Be my guide - you'll never find the One
Working in a barber's, though everyone says
You are an artist.