Follicular Particulars

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When I was in elementary school, my mother and I had a morning ritual.  Every a.m., before I left for school, she would do my hair.

My mom ran an in-home daycare during those years, and one-on-one time with her was especially hard to come by.  But there was always time – always, regardless of how many rugrats were underfoot or who was throwing cereal at their sibling or which kid was having a screaming fit – there was always time for her to do my hair.

She would meet me at the couch (a horrid orange-ish affair in wool berber plaid with matching pillows and solid wood arm rests that would knock you unconscious should you be so unfortunate as to whack your head on one while mucking about the living room pretending to be an elephant) every morning, pluck the proffered hairbrush and ponytail holders from my hands, and say, “What will it be?”  Sometimes it would be simple – “a high ponytail” (as opposed to a low one – they are two very different things), “pigtails,” or “a low braid” (see previous note re: high/low) – and other times it would be more complicated.  “High pigtails with three braids each,” for example, was quite an undertaking.  So was a french braid, if only because my mom wasn’t highly skilled at the feat.

She’d gamely create whatever ‘do I requested though, and off I’d trot to suit up for the walk to school, sporting a high-ponytail-with-three-braids-made-into-a-bun, or occasionally just three barrettes.  Of graduated monochromatic tone.  Only on the right side.

My mother will never pretend to be a hairstylist.  Nor will I ever pretend to be anything but a tomboy.  I was then and still am.  Keeping my locks locked down has never been a priority for me.  It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.

But I loved those precious few moments when she was focused only on me in the midst of those crazy childhood mornings, and I reveled in the ritual of getting my hair done.

Once upon a time – for the first 35 years of my life, actually – my hair was long and strong, thick and silky.  Ponying it was a trick.  I could only wrap a fat ponytail elastic around it, and only twice.

Hair 4And then one day, it wasn’t so thick anymore.  Or so silky.  Double wrapping the elastic became triple, then simply became impossible.  My hair had always been fine (as opposed to coarse), but it was rapidly and unexpectedly losing heft.

Because it was falling out.

I was raised to eschew vanity.  To not put stock in ‘prettiness’.  To find my value in traits more lasting than physical attractiveness.  Beauty is fleeting and is not nearly as important as brains or brawn.  It is a lesson I learned well.

Or so I thought.

But unbeknownst to my own mind, I had a weak point.  The one thing about myself that I always considered beautiful – without actually realizing I felt that way about it until it started falling out – was my hair.

my-hair-2It’s grown back now.
Kind of.

But it’s different.

It’s curlier (kinkier, really – it’s too curly to be straight and the curls are too unevenly dispersed to be wavy) than it used to be, and it’s finer.  Dryer.  It’s a different color too, though how much of that is down to age (I’m guessing that’s the reason for the silver streaks) versus being a medicinal side effect (where did all this brown come from?) is hard to say.

I am more careful with it now than I ever was before.  I don’t chemically process it, and I don’t cut it except for minor trims to blend in the delicate new growth.  I limit its exposure to heat, and I hesitate to stress it by pulling it back too tightly or too often.

But pulling of a different sort…

I do like to have my hair pulled.  But not in a yank-my-hair and smack-my-ass kind of way.  Um, that would be a NO.

Give me gentle tugs with loving fingers, either to assuage an ache (I suffer from migraines), to help me relax, or to offer comfort.  That, I love.

And I love to give my lovers’ hair a tug.

Hair 1

This conversation quickly devolved.
Completely off-topic subsequent texts are included below for your amusement.

Hair 2

Hair 3

(If you’re scratching your head about the gonorrhea thing, it’s all makes sense.  Really.  See here.)

We will now continue with your regularly scheduled programming.

Running my fingers through someone’s hair is mostly *not* a sexy thing to me.  I say ‘mostly’ because, of course I put my hands in my partner’s hair when we are kissing or cuddling or making love or doing aggressively naked things.  It’s a way to share touch, to gently assert dominance (if and when I choose to do so), to wrap myself up – literally, with fingers and fisted hands – in my lover.  And I enjoy that.  Immensely.

But it can also be a very platonic thing for me.  Perhaps it stems from my experience with having my mother’s hands in my hair every day during my formative years; perhaps it is because of having experienced the emotional intensity of losing my hair and subsequently nurturing it back to life; perhaps it is for another reason entirely.  The why is uncertain.  But I associate hands in hair – mine in others’ or theirs in my own – with calm, with comfort, with care and support.

conversation with a friend about playing with hair being comfortingI have held friends of both the same and opposite sex and run my fingers through their hair during times of trial.  If you are one of My People, I will pet you when you need comfort.  Which means brushing hair out of your eyes when you need to be held, holding it back off your face while you cry, stroking my hand over your crown to soothe your shakes, or running my fingers through your tresses to distract you from your worries.

That’s not to say hair can’t be sexy.  It most certainly can.  And I’ve had men kink to my hair in various ways over the years.  Length, color, style.  Texture.  Curl.  That sort of thing.  And I don’t mind that my hair has, at one time or another, fired various partners’ lust(s).  I can work with that.  Knowing what turns my partner(s) on is, in itself, a turn-on for me.

my-hair-3Follicular particulars are not something I personally kink to though.

If we’re in a relationship, and you’re into the mane attraction, go ahead and tell me that.  Or don’t.  To me, the whole “I dig your hair” thing is no different than when someone tells me they like my smile, or the sprinkling of freckles across my chest, or the way my thigh muscles feel wrapped around their head during oral sex.

Okay, maybe it’s a little different than that last one.

But not much.  😉


How do you feel about hair?

Are there cuts, colors, styles, or textures that turn you on?


9 thoughts on “Follicular Particulars

  1. Basdenleco

    Being as bald as the proverbial badger since 16 (hereditary) I find it hard to relate at a personal level.
    Also long tresses flicking my face does attend to annoy.
    BUT one gets the importance of hair to many peoples well being and esteem.
    I have forgotten the number of balding guys I have counseled who are having “issues”.
    Grass does not grow on a busy spot.
    Redheads with bob style cuts (Mary Quant) style and large loop drop pearl earrings will always catch my attention.
    To a discerning lady of intellect, inquiring mind, literate, articulate, sensual and charismatic.

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      I like bald heads. 🙂

      On other people anyway. Men especially. (And especially if I get to rub them.)

      Going bald is not an experience I wish to repeat for myself though.

      My mother’s father was bald, from a young age. There is a picture on display in her home, of my mom sitting on her dad’s lap as a toddler, and he’s balding in the photo. I think his receding hairline became completely-bald-on-top by his early 30s. It’s definitely how I remember him from the time I was quite small, and my memories of my grandpa are quite fond.

  2. Bill Rice

    Well if you get kinkier as you get older shouldn’t your hair as well?

    It’s interesting the sorts of intimacy we allow strangers. The girlfriend of a friend of mine was a dental hygienist. I once made a comment to her about how many strangers would you allow to stick their fingers in your mouth. This was long ago enough to wear most dental workers didn’t always wear gloves. Her reply was how many strangers would you want to put your fingers into their mouth. She worked for a different dentist than the one I was going to at the time. The hygienist at my dentist’s had rather large breasts and I could feel them pressing against the top of my head as she worked. I went through adolescence with those boobs pressed against the top of my head.

    One day I was talking to one of my aunts and I said. It seems like the guys in our family die young. Dad was 62. Donny was 49. And Roscoe was 65. My aunt informed me that there were lots of guys in the family that lived well into their 90’s. Then she showed me pictures. What struck me was the ones that died young had hair. Those that lived longest were bald. It’s enough to make you pull your hair out.


    Exam gloves come in different flavors now too.

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      I don’t think I could handle being a dental hygienist. Getting up close and personal with people’s mouths stresses me out. Which is one of the many reasons I’m not crazy about kissing.

      Medical intimacies are an odd thing. How many people’s fingers would you want in your mouth? Replace ‘mouth’ with ‘nose’, ‘ear’, ‘ass’, ‘snatch’, etc. Mostly my answer would be “None, thank you.”

      Thank goodness I’m not particularly modest. For people who are, I can only imagine how horrifying a trip to the gynecologist must feel. Traumatizing, I’m sure.

      So where do you fall on the baldness scale? It’s long in the back, but receding in the front, right? So maybe you’ll be an 85-er. As long as you don’t go shortening your lifespan by chasing off on wild hairs. 😛

  3. Molly

    I think your hair is absolutely beautiful. I love the colour and long ‘lazy’ curls.

    I love having my hair touched and stroked but that is a more comfort/soothing things. Your story about your Mum made me smile and made me realise that maybe I also get that enjoyment from years of my Mother ‘doing my hair’. She was very good at it and did a particularly beautiful French braid.

    Molly recently posted…Let your hair downMy Profile

    1. Mrs Fever Post author

      Thank you.

      It’s a unique bonding, I think. That mother/daughter “doing hair” time. Against expectations, my sister was the girly girl, but she never liked having her hair messed with. I was a tomboy and I loved it.

  4. Bee

    My hair is similar, it definitely isn’t straight but it’s not really wavy or curly so I think I’m going to use kinky from now on. I like the idea that it’s wild and kinky!

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