Where scissors dance and mirrors reflect, the chair spins tales of transformations while clippers hum a familiar tune, leaving heads lighter and egos sharper.

A clicking three, is herd upon me. A flat or pyramid peak, with layered, ’phalty’ debris. First four hold a fiddler. The highest, lastly. Two words come together, Keeping rain from your dreams.

In darkness deep my life begins, where time and pressure forge my skin. Yet brought to light I gleam so bright, what am I, a hidden delight?

Breath or helium, On a string in a child's hand. Or airbourne basket.

I swell with air, a rubbery moon, Pricked just right, I let out a tune, What am I, that might pop soon?