Dear D.,
We finally left the party for the partner in your practice, the party I never wanted to attend in the first place. We came home early, wilted from the late August heat, and flopped together on the battered sofa.
We sat silently as you rubbed my back. I felt the full width of your palms. I lost track of time. I stayed in my dress, my hair loose and, by that point, in tangles. I turned toward you, leaned into your chest, and then stretched across your lap. Your hands moved into my hair.
“We have to wash the car.”‘
“You mean we have to wash your car,” I said.
“Well, yes.”
“It’s okay. I’ll do it. I said I would.”
I felt your fingers take one chunk of my hair, twirl it into a coil, then shake it loose, pulling it straight again. I didn’t move away, but I thought about it.
“I really don’t get to see or touch your hair,” you said. “This is rare.”
“It is rare.”
“How come I’m allowed to do it today?”
“Because I’m too hot and sleepy to stop you.” I paused. “And it’s not like you’re not allowed to touch it other times.”
“Yeah, but you never let it happen other times. There’s no chance. Like it’s untouchable.”
“Are we washing your car or not?”
“Yeah.”
“I should get changed then.”
“Can you leave your hair down?”
I eased off your lap, gently, and didn’t know if I could leave my hair loose for you.
I changed in the bedroom, leaving my dress in a wrinkled heap on the floor. Instead of braiding my hair or pulling it upward, I tied it in a loose ponytail – a compromise.
Access to hair. You didn’t mean to ask for the impossible.
I’m no Samson. I know that for a fact. I already lost my hair and gained strength instead when it happened, but not without feeling crushed and disoriented. You didn’t know what was lost to me back then. You couldn’t know, not after playing with over two feet of hair locked securely in my scalp.
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