Hairy Palms

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Charles cut his hair the other night. Still long, but not as long. The new 'do' (?) looks nice, especially in profile. I miss the greater length. Long hair is my weak spot.

It was the right thing to do.Perms had left him with many structurally impaired strands so it was a good thing to do. And when the perm faded he'd try fake the curl by pulling the hair out. Sometimes he'd spend a half an hour making his hair look like it hadn't been brushed in a month. I've never understood why curly hair, like blonde, is the most admired. When I was a kid women would tell me they'd kill for my hair. Seemed downright nutty to me. (But what didn't?)

He cut mine yesterday morning. After he had to leave Julliard he studied many things ranging from phebotomy to hair styling. When he trims mine, I let him do whatever he wishes. Best thing I can think of to do with all those dead cells is please my lover.

I could say I save money. But I don't. Since I left home I doubt if I've paid for a half-dozen haircuts. I started letting it grow long as soon as I left school. One day in Atlanta, a guy named Severin, said I looked like a "hippie greaser." That didn't sound like something the boys might be looking for. I stopped combing and parting it. My hair's inexhaustible curliness took care of itself. It was probably an Afro of sorts, ordinary for the 70s.

Sometimes my benign neglect must've gone too far. Gordon, for some reason talking to one of his mother's classes, told the youngsters that he had a friend with a "broccoli head." I started wearing it shorter. I don't remember having it cut often. I probably knew boys who'd cut it for me.

I remember the last haircut I let my momma pay for. My hair looked something like a lopsided Liberace. I was pissed. My father, in the self-deluding way of parents, decided that my hating a haircut my mother paid for proved I'd only been fucking with him when I told him I was gay. Manfully, I didn't share with him the kinky inclinations a particular whipping he gave me later inspired.

In my despondent years I'd just yank out tangles. I think Gordon may have cut it for me a few times. With the return of lust I tried to grow it out. Conditioners, detanglers notwithstanding my ponytail never got very long. (Not that I'd've looked good with one, I just fine ponytails very sexy on others.) Betrayed by my genes, my hair was just too damned thin.

My solution was to go to K-Mart and buy a cutting cutting ensemble. Accidentally setting the clippers to the minimum hair length I wound up shaven headed. Until I met Charles and gave him veto power. Long gone are the days of listening to Crosby, Nash, Stills & Young sing I Almost Cut My Hair. In the early 70s the song had a potency that escapes me today.

When I hit my teens I hated going to the barber. The talcum powder they sprinkled on your kneck smelled awful. And there was the silly superstition of singing the ends of 'open hairs' to prevent colds.

A few times unknown adults asked me if I wanted to ride in their car. There used to be pulic service announcements warning you to not get in. Wonder if I would've without them. I never wondered why they did. I just refused to get in just as I always "looked left and right" before crossing the street. Lt. Funk on the Happy Day taught me that.

The only man I ever remember thinking a pervert when I was a kid back in Savannah was a barber. He wanted to know if I masturbated. I think he made the inevitable hairy palms joke Naive young me felt there was something plain wrong about a strange adult asking me that.

I didn't know about same sex attraction. Whether he was a closet case or just trying to be one of the boys I don't know. He was lucky I wasn't in the habit of talking to daddy.

I didn't mind talking about jerking off with other folks. Victor had introduced me to that solitary entertainment. I remember the first time I masturbated. It was fun it but not nearly as later when the hormones kicked in and I had inner movies to enliven the proceedings.

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