Day 12: hair
Over the course of the years of their friendship, Kahrin and Innes fell into little rituals unique only to them. A book of fairy tales read aloud (by Innes, of course), or a night of slasher movies and too many sour gummy candies. Often Innes enjoyed brushing out the full length of her hair until it fanned around them and then braiding into a long rope which fell past her rear. She would let her eyes flutter closed, letting all of her thoughts narrow down to the feeling of the brush through the locks, or his fingers winding strand over strand. She enjoyed few things more, and even fewer which could be done in public.
Of those, the one which sat apart were the more quiet times where she would be chosen among all the creation of all the worlds to be the one to run her fingers in his hair. After he fell asleep at a sleepover, before breakfast when she was first awake and Ma had not yet called them down to eat, or one of the innumerable times they would lounge together while he read whatever story had piqued his interest that day. Innes’ hair was untouchable.
She wouldn’t say Innes was fussy about his hair, at least not to his face. Well, maybe to his face but not in front of anyone. It was always styled in that way that was meant to look like he’d not styled it at all, and only she alone was allowed to touch it. No girlfriend was afforded this simple intimacy, and Kahrin held that to her heart better than any gift or flutter of thrill from any boy turning his gaze her way. She would pull the brown and silver strands, watching it slide from between her knuckles, and enjoy the pauses in his reading to hum his appreciation for the way she pressed the pads of her fingers against his scalp. It was a small thing. A simple thing. And it was one of the most precious things.
© b.r. hill-mann 2019