You protest against your hair, so long that you are obliged to comb it? Well, let me tell you as you put it back to the #2 shave it held before you met me where I cannot run my fingers through it; it’s hard to be a woman.
At the end of a day, the first thing I want to do is to slip between my sheets, to rest my pounding heart and thoughts in the dark, warm unconsciousness of sleep. This is the last thing I do.
First, everything has to come off: there is the eyeliner, the mascara—it runs across my face in a mask but I will leave the lipstick; the stained color is nice—the heels, the hose, the dress...and other things...the oils that gathered on my face during the day require a different type of soap, scrub away plaque and polish with floss. Then I pause, look in the mirror, think for a moment, sigh, and redress: attend to the imperfections reddening my face, lotion, creme the lips, retainer replaced, a glass of water for the morning run tomorrow, hair let down, brushed, braided (what would you say if I shaved my head too?). And just when I think I am ready to go to sleep, I remember it will be warm tomorrow, so I climb under the shower and shave (why do we care about it anyway?). The concerned surface area is much greater than yours, I assure you. If I wash my hair, it takes much longer for then there is the drying and styling. Since I am running in the morning and I am tired, I will leave it. Now, eyes covered with the comfort and darkness of a mask, I can sleep.
The next time you tell me your hair is so long, I will give you a look that says this paragraph. Then, maybe you will smile and let me run my fingers through your hair again.
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