Oh Dear, What Can The Matter Be? by Kathleen Wildman

The year is 1800. George Harrocks, age 12, is trying to make himself look decent for the fair, with the aid of his friend, Postlethwaite, whose deceased father was apparently a barber. Sadly, it appears that none of his father’s skills were passed down to his son...

Oh dear what can the matter be, Postlethwaite cut me hair, and it just doesn’t flatter me, It’s not gonna improve between now and next Saturday. When we are going the fair.

It’s all silky and shiny, and he’s encouraged more curl, If me mam walked in now she’d say, “I always wanted a girl” “Ooh, yer look lovely George, give us a twirl” There’s no way I’m going the fair.

He’d said “I’ll do it just fine ‘cause me dad was a barber” and he comes up with this style, that yer just wouldn’t harbour, I’ll have all the boys after me, it’s the girls I would rather. When I am down at the fair..

He set off flashing his scissors with gusto and ardour, And I must confess no-one could have tried harder, I wish I could have avoided all this palaver. I’ll never get to the fair

He’s made such a mess that I’ll just have to shave it, Folk’ll think I’ve had lice, but I’ll just have to brave it, If they skit me I’ll say “Watch your ‘ed or I’ll cave it. I’ll act ‘ard when I’m down at the fair.

I’ve arranged to meet up, back of tents, with young Valerie, She’s got a figure would grace, any art gallery, I’ll ask can I kiss her, I’m sure that she shall agree. I can’t wait to get to the fair.

I CAN’T WAIT TO GET TO THE FAIR.