Friday, May 15, 2015

My hair

My hair is a fright!

Bern cut it a month or so ago and it was fine, wavy and curly in places. And in another week or so it will be long enough to behave itself.

But right now--in between the wavy, curly stage and the long, manageable stage--is the 'fright' stage.

It won't do anything I want it to do--like lay down and behave itself.

No one has cut my hair for years except Bern. I used to go to a hair salon over in a strip mall in town, but Bern does it better. But she doesn't wash it like the hair cutters did, one of the most sensuous things one person can do for another. I always half-fell-in-love with the hair cutters who washed my hair. I even wrote a poem about that. If I can find it, I'll include it at the end of this.

Many men my age would kill for my hair--still full and healthy (though completely white). Pictures of me as a younger man show hair to die for. Brown and thick and just a tad wavy.

When I was in my 20's I had it so long I had a pony tail. I always liked that. I like long hair or newly cut hair--but this in between is a fright.

I use some oil from Morocco to try to control it, but it just doesn't. I have three brushes in the house and one in the car, but when it's this length, nothing works.

A fright. That's what it is.

OK, I found the poem. Having read it I want to warn you that if you think of me as a paragon of virtue and someone who never has impure thoughts (who would think that of me, after all?) don't read this poem. Really.


I invariably fall a bit in love
with whatever woman
cuts my hair.

I get the shampoo first,
and her fingers in the soap
and the warm to hot rinse
going through my hair
is like foreplay to me.

It's like a stolen kiss
from a stranger in a bar,
or on a street corner,
or on a park bench as dusk is falling.
Just a kiss--a hint of what's to come--
and a touch--lingering and longing.

The walk, wet-headed and amorous,
to her chair is like being invited up
to 'her place' for the night.

I usually stagger a bit from my emotions
and she steadies me with her hand on my arm.
She had me from the time I leaned back--
vunerable and exposed--
and she showered me with warm water
and began to massage my head,
around my ears,
leaning against me,
her taunt breast against my shoulder.

She's always much younger than I am,
which intensifies my love.
And usually--for some reason--
women who cut my hair
have tops that show their cleavage
(a faint dampness between their breasts,
most likely from the shampoo spray,
but never mind, I see it as sweat....)\

Then, imagining myself tied to their chair
(I always have a little bondage in my fantasies)
she begins to move around me,
cutting my hair with scissors so sharp
she could cleanly excise the juggler vein
from my neck
if she so desired....

(OK, I know I'm a little sick,
a tad perverted, 
but I fall in love with this woman,
whoever she is,
circling my body with a deadly weapon,
leaning against me,
her lips slightly parted and moist as she cuts my hair.)

I close miy eyes and imagine we're both naked:
me tied to a chair, she leaning
her young body against me,
growing aroused,
her breath shortening,
because my hair is so long and so thick.

(They always tell me how much joy
they get from cutting such wavy, long, thick hair--
white though it is;
and I gasp at that revelation,
my fantasy almost complete....)

They never drop their scissors,
clattering on the tile floor,
and mount me seated,
as they do in my mind.

We are, after all, fully clothed,
in a hair cutting place
in a strip mall
between a Subway
and a Hallmark Card store
in the middle of the town where I live,
and I'm reading the latest copy
of Sports Illustrated
the store buys for men.

But I fall in love with them anyway:
those young women with nose rings
and eyebrow rings,
(one had a lip piercing that almost sent me reeling....)
rings on their fingers and bells on their toes
and scents of fresh melons and working bodies,
both of which entrance me,
and hair the color of nothing that exists in nature,
these young women who wash and cut my hair.

Luckily, I only get my hair cut
every four months.
So nothing ever comes of my love for them.
Or ever could.
Though I enjoy it so.


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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.