I'm not quite sure what it is about long hair that makes people want to touch it all the time. Whether it is thick, thin, curly, wavy, straight, black, blonde, stripey-purple, layered, permed . . . doesn't matter. Some kind of magnetism (or maybe it is just static electricity) draws childlike hands to finger strands that wisped their way over a shoulder.

I used to go with a group that led a church service at a nursing home; we would sing a few requested songs and then read a few requested verses, and then we'd just go around and talk. Being one of the quiet ones, I tagged along behind one of the older more experienced people and would fetch and carry and feed and smile. They liked to see young people. My most vivid memory of that place was of one of the women there--we met her in her room because she was bedridden, and she had silvery-grey streaked hair and a husky voice and skin like dark chocolate. She talked more than the others, for which I was thankful, and she had bright eyes that were still very alive.

She beckoned me closer to her side until she could reach out an arm to touch me, and I thought she would pinch my cheek and tell me how sweet I was to come and visit a poor old woman (I'd had several of those already, followed by sonnets of praise for their own daughters) but instead she smiled and put her hand on the top of my head, let it run a comb through down to my shoulders. "There," she said, "there, now. Thank you, chil'." And then she gave me a half of a laugh and it was time to go.

Well, there you have a not-very-muchly published memory. I had forgotten about that woman. Yes, I am an ungrateful wretch. But here is someone to redeem me--the Small One who reminded me of that visit.

I was in an airport this evening waiting for the arrival of my mother. It is a Sunday, today, and I went to church this morning and spent the afternoon studying (Wordsworth is a breath of warm, clean air compared to clumsy-oaf-Byron). So, I was still in my sunday-dress, complete with uncomfortable shoes and a nice-jacket. My old raggy magic jean coat is beginning to embarrass my associates. But I digress. The point: I left my hair down.

We found my mother amidst a crowd of old men securing their scarves and young women in tight bleached jeans hugging and otherwise embracing alternate groups of young people . . . one person held a sign that had Russian characters on it. A small toddler ran between people, the little pom-pom on his hat bobbing like a chuckle across the room to the windows which, when you breathed on them, made a lovely drawing surface. Right. Back to my story.

My rebel companion and I relieved our mother of her luggage and began to make our way through the slowly swelling crowd, when I saw out of the corner of my eye, a little hand raised to touch me as I passed. My first thought was "beggars" and the next "thieves" (both of these for which I am unsure whether I should be shamed or not) . . . but it was just a Small Someone who was waiting with his mother (now scolding him) for another arrival. He'd reached up and let two or three fingers run though my hair. I assured his mother it was alright and tossed a smile at the Small One before swinging the suitcase behind me and tripping over the tile floor out to the parking lot.

I don't know why I wrote about my hair. I meant to write about more frightening things, like finding pictures of Britney Spears smuggled onto one's blog and the speechless threats that run through one's head afterwards, but they'll have to wait.

For all those who don't have a clue why I wrote about my hair, it is nothing special except that it is long. I can sit on it now, it is long enough to . . . it is a brown, nondescript color with a bit of red in it if I spend a day or two in the sun. I have only one curl, which is bobbing almost below my chin at present. I'm very proud of it. Right now I've coiled it into a messy bun and garnished it with hairpins. And now I will braid it like I always do before I go to sleep. Sleep . . .

I am glad mindsay is back again; I can't seem to quit writing. I used to just use coffee napkins and ruled paper from my schoolbooks, etc. but this is kind of convenient:) Ok . . . sweet dreams!