Allow me

"If he would wash it, or brush it, or use it during lovemaking, than it would have made more sense to keep it long."

The look in your eyes was...well, resignation I guess. Something distant and sad. Disappointment in those young idealistic expectations of what a relationship between a man and a woman would hold. Twenty two years later the reality still hurts, still makes you sad. You can see it, somewhere deep inside, if you are watching with a keen eye and a sensitivity to or affiliation with your feelings. It's obvious.

Most people probably don't see it. They too have resigned themselves to the won't happens, never, not in a million years. It just wasn't realistic. I mean we were young and naive. Our mothers never told us of this. But, their mothers didn't either.

It's as if wanting romance is foolish. Just a silly woman's thing. "That's not what marriage is about dear."

"You shouldn't expect things."

"The honeymoon can't last forever."

If you want someone to wash your hair, their fingers massaging your scalp as water cascades down both of your naked badies, warm, sensuous. Droplets on your eyelashes. Tasting the water that runs down the tip of your nose, mingles in your kiss... it should be.

If you want to stand on the cold tile floor, lost in the misty, steamy air, a big thirsty towel drinking the moisture from your skin, your hair. Looking into each other's eyes, wrapped in each other's arms, touching, caressing, breathing in the clean, musky, smell of soap, shampoo and damp, warm, flesh...it should be.

If you want to feel the scratchy tips of a brush run across your scalp, down through your honey, amber hair tousled and tangled by lovemaking while you sit between your lover's knees, legs entwined, sleepy satisfaction closing your eyes, stroke, stroke, stroke, slowly falling asleep, bodies falling into one another...it should be.

Allow me.