Hair

There's a man who pays to watch me chew and suck my hair. I do it on the internet. I sit nude stuffing my hair into my mouth. I drench it in my saliva while I watch him in his bubble bath. I suspect that he somehow knows that I hate 'fixing' my hair. It's tedious. It takes too much time. I think he does it out of some sort of sadistic impulse.

So it was really weird yesterday. I was sitting in the auditorium waiting for this speaker to come on, and there was this girl sitting in front of me. BTW I have never met this girl. Anyway, her hair was in a pony tail and it was over the back of the seat. I don't know why, but I felt like I had to touch her hair, and I was just about to when I realized that I was being so creepy. So I didn't. It was kind of funny though.

every morning i've been waking up to his hair over a cool white shoulder and framing his sweetly sleeping face. he's always there, first thing, in my dreams, on my lips. i fantasize about pushing his hair off his skin and kissing there where it's laid all night, smelling his skin in the morning and wrapping one arm around his waist to lay in bed a little bit longer.

i'm obsessed with his hair. i love the way that it waves as it falls down his back and the ends shoot off rebelliously in different directions. i love the light brown/dark brown streaks that i see in the sun sometimes. i love the way that he pushes it back and tucks it behind his ear when it gets in his face only to untuck it self-consciously a few moments later. i love the way that our hair tangles together, his thick and curled, mine wiry and straight, blonde on brown on black and stuck together in gentle knots in the morning when we've been sleeping close.

he wears his hair long to hide, to cover the back of his neck, to push over his face when he's self conscious, to play with when he's nervous. i love it because it makes him special, because it's beautiful and he's beautiful.

Word to the wise:

Never change your hairstyle and diet simultaneously. I've been dieting and not cutting my hair for 6 months.

Number of people to say, "Wow! I love your hair!" : 6. Number of people to say, "Wow! You've lost weight!" : 0

Hair growth: 6". Weight loss: 32 lbs.

I'm not bitter. It's just vaguely amusing.

My hair is long now. Not really long, but shoulder length, and its natural color again.

I can't help but feel like I've sold out somehow, that by losing 20 pounds I've magically decided that I'm going to conform to some conventional definition of beauty when beauty was never my purpose. I own stylish clothes. My mother is thrilled. I feel like I've lost something.

I never tried to conform to anything. I never tried to be nonconformist either. I've just been.

But what happens when I lose another 20? Or another? Will I start wearing makeup and tight jeans? I don't want blond highlights.

I rather enjoy playing with people's hair. Running my fingers through the curly, straight, coarse, silky-smooth, etc strands of hair. Smoothing away their worries and cares by imparting some sort of peace into their minds. The relaxation of having your head petted and your hair played with seems almost a universal "RELAX" button.

After a long, hard time period, it's nice to be sitting with a friend, a lover, someone who cares, who will smooth back your hair as you lie in their lap, telling them of your recent events. Those are times that I love to remember, when I braided their hair, curled it up between my finger tips, fluffted it with my hands, or whatever. It's very comfortable for me. I like my hair too, it's smooth and I never brush it, but other people play with it, they smooth out my worries and cares for just a little while. I can shut my eyes and pretend that it doesn't matter for just a little while, and it seems that it made all te difference.

perhaps it's simply a fetish of mine, but i am intrigued at how much a person's hair can give away. the look, feel, length, cut, style, scent, taste...a head of hair holds a history as brief and bare as a bald scalp...or as tangled, twisted, and sun-kissed as a shaggy mane to the small of the back. everything from age and volition to culture and creed can be observed, sculpted in slender strands of protein. there is perhaps no other personal testament so sensuous.