Susan Senator

One of the best feelings in life is for someone to play with my hair. It is a great high for me. When I was a little girl, this was one of the favored activities with friends and my babysitters, to get out a brush, rubber bands, and barettes and create wild hairdos in each other's hair. The activity was sometimes fraught with a dash of anxiety, however, because my mother had put the fear of God in me about catching lice. One premier commandment, along with the Top Ten from Moses, was "Thou shalt not use someone else's brush." This was followed up with a reminder of how Cathy O'Neil, a friend who had caught lice, had to get all her hair cut off to get rid of it. Being a total girlie-girl, (before that was even a thing), this would have been one of the worst things I could experience. I have almost always had long hair and will have it as long as I can get away with it!

Still, I would engage in hair-play as much as possible. One of my favorite players was my father, who was as much of a "groomee" as I was. My sister and I would set up "Lorette's," a full-service salon, where she would color Dad's nails with chalk dipped in water (our premium manicure), and I would put his hair in various styles. Dad, who is pretty macho, was also a very good sport. And I must say he looked quite fetching in pigtails!

Once I had children of my own -- all boys -- I assumed that my hair-playing days were over. To my great delight, little Max did not mind playing salon/dentist, a strange combo of fixing teeth and combing hair. And once again I had the great pleasure of feeling a child's fingers twirling my tresses. Even though Ned is willing to oblige me with the brush, there is nothing like the innocent, agenda-free hands of a little kid.

When Max hit the tween and teen years, I had to retire my hair fun. I couldn't expect a 12- or 14- year old boy to want to play with his mom's hair! But this morning I had a surprise. Little Benj started wrapping my hair around his hands while I sat here typing. He found his own particular joy in hair-play by making me into all kinds of Star Wars characters, from Padme to the Wookie to Princess Leia ("bunhead"). Every now and then I would catch the scent of a little of his sweet breath. I maintained my sang-froid and pretended to type, so that he would not realize just how happy this was making me; Benj is not comfortable with too much emotional display. But I wanted to swoon right into my keyboard at the wonderful return of small fingers in my hair!