Strictly about the Hair

She looked him up and down. She wanted to touch his hair. It was beautiful, straight and just perfect. She’d grown up in a small town in Montana and she had never met a guy with such perfect hair. In fact, she was sure that she had never met a girl with such perfect hair.

So there she was, admiring it, when he said, “It’s okay, you can touch.”

It was impossible to tell where he had come from. His voice was urbane like vanilla soft cream. It could have been any voice in any city. And besides, she was too distracted by his hair. She’d been out of her small Montana community for some time, but there she was with cheeks turning scarlet red.

She did as he said and touched it. It was smooth and fine to the touch, like horse hair. She could see that he was in love with his hair too. Whatever happened from here on out, they at least shared that.

“I have a name, you know.”

His voice was soft and tender. She noticed that now. She could see why her boss had hired him to wear nothing but spandex undies and angel wings and serve them chocolates during her bachelorette pre-party.

“Actually,” she said, and she said it because she knew, and he must have known also, that she couldn’t start a relationship with a man in spandex and angel wings. “Actually, I’d rather keep this relationship strictly about the hair.”

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