down at the floor,"
I lean forward a
little from the waist and contemplate the lineoleum tiles below me.
Tufts of hair are raining down on my bare feet like fine dandelion
fluff. (Dark brown dandelion fluff, desperately in
need of a
bucket of hot oil and a new primer coat of Miss Clairol #42, maybe ...
but dandelion fluff, nonetheless.)
it looking?" I ask.
tugs the comb through
the back of my hair a couple of times, quickly, expertly, without
reply. He puts his hand on the back of my head and gently pushes it
forward, so that my chin meets my chest. I am now 'contemplating' my
"A little more," he murmurs ... more to himself than to
me, I suspect. I hear the snick snick of the
scissors ... feel
the cold steel of the blade through my T-shirt, as he clips in a
straight line across my back. More hair rains down on the faded blue
bath rug at my feet. As he snips, holding the scissors in his right
hand, he uses the fingers of his left hand to alternately lift and
smooth my hair. His touch -- warm, practiced, sure -- sends little
electrical currents shooting from my scalp straight down the length of
I love this.
always loved having my
hair touched. When I was in grade school, and my hair was long enough
to sit on -- a bit of a novelty in 1968 -- my friends used to take
turns brushing it during recess. Later, as a young mother, I loved the
feeling of my baby's fingers entwined in my hair as we nursed. But this
is a different feeling altogether. There is just something so
incredibly intimate -- something tender and erotic and sweetly human
-- about standing here in the bathroom on a Sunday night, having my
husband cut my hair. I look forward to these bi-monthly haircuts the
way one might look forward to a date, or a vacation, or a second
honeymoon. For the first time in my life, I am actually glad to have
straight, fine, uncomplicated hair that can be blunt-cut with a minimum
of fuss, muss, expense ... or beauty parlor chit-chat. (No snooty
beautician standing behind me, scowling disapprovingly at my roots and
sniffing "I see you color your hair yourself?")
think we're done," David
says finally. And he sets the scissors down on the counter next to the
I lift my chin
and shake my head, sending a last handful of loose hair drifting to the
floor. Together we look in the mirror, David standing behind me,
looking over the top of my head.
Well? says his
you like it?
I have to admit that it's a bit shorter than
just barely grazing my shoulders, on either side -- but yes, I like it.
It looks neat and cared-for and ever-so-slightly sassy, and it's
already beginning to flip pertly a little at the ends.
going to be very 'That
Girl' for the next few weeks.
meet his reflected eyes in
the mirror. "Thank you," I tell him sincerely. "It looks great." And I
begin cleaning up the mess ... scooping up fistfuls of spent hair from
the floor and the sink and the bath rug and depositing them into the
a minute," he says
suddenly, as I'm wiping the floor with a damp towel. "I think I've
missed a spot."
And he positions me in front of the mirror again,
directly beneath the light, running his fingers through the back of my
hair a couple of times and picking up the scissors.
down," he orders. And
once again I obediently lean forward and look down at my feet ...
shivering a little in anticipation.