Midday yesterday a neighbor dropped by for a neighborly chat (more specifically, she brought her pathology textbook so I could ogle the osteosarcoma x-ray images). I apologized for how I was dressed when I came to the door, explaining that my beachy clothes were rather soggy because I’d just gotten home from paddling with a teammate. Then John poked his head around the corner, he also damp and shirtless. He’d just stepped out of the shower. We joked a bit about the silliness of us both being home mid-day in a state of deshabille…
The truth is that we met for lunch so I could cut his hair–so he could look just a bit less mangy-Neil-Gaiman and a bit more GQ. I’m not the world’s best hairstylist, but I’ve been cutting John’s locks since we were first dating. There’s little else that I love more than plunging my fingers deep into his dark curls (and for those who’ve ever heard the story of how we first met, you know that that lovely head of hair was what first caught my eye).
So last night when I was at the Regina Spektor concert, I was so glad that she played Samson in her encore set…because it’s long been a song that reminded me of John–there’s something so powerful about his lovely hair, if only because it’s just one of those many things that make my heart melt whenever he steps into view.
PS: I’m glad he passed the hair genes on to at least one our kids. Methinks the world needs more good hair like his.