Hair

I'm watching him talk. He's moving around because he is animated when he talks to people, like a performer trying to get everything into each word. But I'm not really watching him talk. I'm watching his hair roll around softly on his back. He is unaware of it, it seems. But I can't concentrate on anything else. I want him to shut up. I want to take him away from these people and run my hands through his hair and feel it like this. Its softness, its fullness, its weight. It seems so simple, so stupid. What he's saying really is interesting. I want to listen. I just can't. I remember what it felt like, but like the addict, I need more. And no one would even understand why. They would just shake their heads like they always do. But they don't see. This hair is who he is, it lives a life with him, in spite of him, and because of him. It has moods and needs like anything else. So I want my hands in it.
There was a song (is a song) that I once knew "La Chevelure". The rough translation into English went something like this : He said to me, tonight I had a dream, I had the tresses of your hair around my neck. I had your hair like a black circlet around the nape of my neck and around my breast. I caressed it and it was my own; and we were united forever this way, by the same tresses, mouth upon mouth, like two laurels that often have but one root. And little by little it seemed to me that so intermingled were our limbs that I became a part of you, or you entered into me like my dream. When we had finished telling me, he put his hands gently on my shoulders and he looked at me with so tender a look that I lowered my eyes with a shiver.
(Claude Debussy's "Chanson di Bilitis", in case anyone is interested.)
Hair is erotic. It's sexy. But sometimes it seems like it's so much more than that.