Mirrors don't lie, Right? Not the bathroom kind anyway, There is no way they don't always tell the truth. Because its just me, In the mirror, And I don't lie, At least not to myself, I didn't used to anyway. The mirror shows a little scruff, Just a little there, Right by the chin, I didn't used to have that there. Dad! Can I borrow a razor? I've got a little forest here! Of golf-grass hairs, Just right below my chin. Just right around my neck. You're shaving what?There's nothing to shave.Little boys don't shave. He kids of course. It's something kids do. At least I used to. Of course I'm shaving that! I'm like Lincoln with my mountain-man beard, I look so wise and old, And all grown up, With my golf-green curls. I'm leaving it all there! What a man I am! How old I look! Just a moment ago I looked so young. I so hated being young. I'm sure now to get all the girls. You know, Just like I used to. My mother thinks I should shave it off, She thinks I should shave it off clean,But mother,People like people with beards,People with beards,And grey hair on their ﬁelds of wheat,They have thoughts and opinions,They have real things to worry about,They have places to be mom,They have places to be!Money in the pocket,And not a silly worry in the world, They used to have them probably, But not anymore,And never again. The look in her face,The stone of her eyes,Glossed over with lakes of glass,With crispy leaves of sorrow,Floating upon the surface,Could have turned a thousand men,To shave a thousand beards. She did not used to get that look,In her eye. She said to me, Son.Love.Life comes to all,And you see your father there?Look at him,Looking in his mirror,Shaving his beard my son,My love.A beard is not what makes a man,It is not what kills nightmares,It does not create a treasury in your pocket,Or a mint in your wallet.The gold of all the silken clad sheiks,And noble kings,With noble lords,Will not suddenly be at your disposal.It will not provide for you,An audience with a propensity to care,And an ear to give.A man makes a man,My son, my love, I remember when I used to see such a ﬁery glow, In the furnaces of your fathers cheeks,You have them now just the same as he.My love, my son,Keep your rosy cheeks,And your dimpled chin,For as long as you can,The glow goes away for the winter when covered,Yes the dimples will hide in caves for the winter.The thing about beards,My son, my love,Is that I love your glow,Your rosy red cheeks.I adore your dimples,Your passage to a smile,And I don't want to say, That I used to.