Long Haired Man

The young man sat in his little abode while he brushed his long long hair. He had spent the day in the woods. Swimming in the rivers, adventures through the pines, eating the fruits the trees gave him, and laying on the ground. He loved knowing that even when he was in his tiny apartment, existence was in every crevice imaginable.

He sat there in peace, as the thoughts of others moved all around him. He felt the people who loved him and knew their presence, they were always aware of one another. The new blue light used to brighten his small home made him smile, calmed him, and gave his plants food.

He bathed in warm water. Felt the warm water caress his body like a mother who nurtures her child ever so tender. He scrubbed all the bits of his body. First his arms and armpits so the old skin would rinse off. Then his stomach and chest to allow his hands to rub his heart. Then his butt and crotch, cleaning it well since it was the area he could touch the least during the day. Then his long legs. He weaved his fingers through his thick and soft hairs.

He liked to rub his feet the most. His feet were one of his favorite parts of his body, for they could tell stories of long long journeys, tales of perseverance, and could remember endearing moments of intimacy. The toes on his feet would curl like his fingers over the surfaces they encountered. They were used to feeling the earth, and the soft skin of his legs when he slept. They were also nurtured a bit more than all the other parts of his body, for they often were asked to do the most work.

Then he rubbed mineral oil into his skin to keep it soft as the weather became colder day by day. He patted himself dry and put on nothing but his sweater, leaving the lower part of his body naked. He was always careful to leave his feet, toes, and legs exposed, for one does not wear gloves when one wants to feel.

He sat on the floor as the tunes played, tunes that helped him dream. The kind of music that inspired his imagination, that made him more present. The kind of tunes that allowed him to hear his heart beat, to know the strength and power in his low breath, and to feel the blood flow through to every microscopic bit of his body. He was a strong and silent creature.

He dried his hair with a towel. He shook his hands all over his head to get as much moisture as he felt right onto the cotton cloth. Then he hung the towel up, and ran his fingers through his hair. It was alive and dead all at once. It was wild and free, and it loved to move with the wind. He laughed as he moved his fingers in a structured chaos throughout his scalp. The skin felt so nourished being massaged like that as the hairs flew up in long stranded clumps and waved all through the room.

He then brushed his hair. Each stroke he did with love. He would pat his head after a few turns, and then ran his fingers through the hair again and again and again. The repeated patterns were the meditative drumbeat he danced to. The hair that had been clumped off, he discarded, but not before the acknowledgement that it was once a part of him. He had built that hair.

The tunes continued to play as the well brushed young man sat on the floor with his hair shiny and neat. Every strand told a story, and when the strands were broken and their time with him was past, new strands would begin to write their own stories. With every bit of hair passing on, a new one would come to life. He smiled as he knew that every bit of him would have its own life to live, its own story to tell. He would be there to cultivate and listen to every last strand.