I realized I loved TBID one day when I went to get my hair colored. This was long ago.
The colorist had painstakingly turned my head into a paint by number, leaving the various dyes on for 15 minutes and then calling me to the sink.
I lay back as she washed my hair. Warm water rushed through the strands. Her nails gently scraped my scalp.
It was the most I’d been touched by someone else in days.
After a thorough rinse, the colorist gave my hair a treatment for some kind of extra protection or beauty. She rubbed in a tingly, minty gel.
I cannot stress enough that this particular substance could make the world’s problems - and hair - a lot more manageable. (Remind me to email President Obama about this).
Immediately, I realized I wanted to make TBID feel this. Literally. I wanted to bend his neck over a sink and wash his hair.
And figuratively.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to show love to every follicle on his head, every hidden freckle or bump. Any and all cowlicks.
I loved him.
So I was sitting at the salon and trying not to cry and get lost in an emotional tsunami.
A few weeks ago, I got my hair colored again. It’s dark brown now, and I had no say in the matter.
Most of my friends don’t understand how I can so easily change my hair. Hair modeling does require some flexibility, but in this matter, I’m Gumby.
I trust the colorists who work with me. So far, this hasn’t been a mistake.
The day that I don’t like what’s happened to my hair, I know it’ll grow back. Dyes fade. I’m still protected from the heat and cold.
I wish I could say the same for love and TBID and what I wanted for us.
I still want it.
Some day I will love a man as much as you loved him.
I hope he loves you back the same way. Sigh.