Sheetal checked herself in the mirror.. hmm not bad. This new short hair look had a certain something about it. Tossing her hair side to side, she ran her fingers through it to see how it fell in several directions.
Her eyes met those of the hair dresser. His deadpan look, implied immense boredom.The hair dryer perched on his shoulder with the 100 pocket pouch strapped against his waist.. his eyes were vacant, not even looking at her as she preened and pouted.
She pushed her chair back a notch.Startled, he collected himself and glanced at her. "would u like to see the mirror for the back view maam" ? She declined, happy with the way her hair was falling around her face, she wanted to bounce off from the chair and head out .. sashaying down the street.
Megha used to always qoute this, there is nothing like a haircut to instantly make a girl happy.. Smart child she was... ;-)
She got up. Slung her big handbag on the shoulder and marched to the billing counter
The lady there, glanced up and smiled
'nice haircut maam, suits you'
She grinned, resisting the urge to slide her fingers n toss her tresses some more. Paying her bill, she left the tip amount at the counter, not wanting to disturb her stylist in his dreams. There was something about parlours that she could not place her hands on. Either the place wanted her to sink into the nearest chair, close her eyes and surrender. Or somehow they made her squirm- where she did not feel classy enough to be there. Felt like an imposter and wanted to run.
Think it was somehow connected with the sense of comfort that was there with the person touching her. A man sitting in front of her, with her feet on his knees, scrubbing with all his might was - ' shameful?' and 'powerful' at the same time.
Dominance- a subtle feeling that comes over you when a man is bent over you. Spending his time in beautifying you. The same things when done by a women feels somehow normal, there is a sense of gratitude that comes in but somehow with a man there is a difference.
She paused as she walked, slowing down her pace. Maybe it was a childhood thing. Anything that was about personal touch she can only remember her mom doing it for her. The baths in the morning as a child, buttoning the shirt or tying her shoe laces.
Men like dad and uncles were far removed, to be used as cuddlers in the morning or at best for the occasional session spent swinging in there arms.. gleefully grinning. Men were somehow not meant to be that close, not meant to touch as much - there was an unwritten rule that she had imbibed
Interesting she thought as she walked along the street.
touch
A world onto itself. You gave license to very few people to touch you- even in a platonic manner. What defined it? Gender or the role they played in your life?
She traced the list of friends she had. Men and women. With both sides, there were some, she would not think too much about before hugging or maybe even putting her head on there shoulder. For some others - she would be careful to ensure that while the fastest banter was on, or personal conversation took place she would not get too close. not hug. not touch.
Recoiling at touch was instinctive. Even when it was innocent.
it was personal. it was about me.
even a doctor was somehow allowed in, with reluctance.
Yet this one thing- could say so much without words. She remembered the few times where someone holding her hand was enough of a reassurance.- the world was ok, that meant. .......... as much as she appreciated it. this spontaneous touch did not come easy to her. it never had.... not beyond the world of lovers or babies or dogs.
Group hugs with friends, or lying down with a lot of body contact with a bunch of girls was weird. In school, the girls wanted to hold hands even when going to the loo.. and she never got it. ever.
She smiles. Holding hands.... what an introduction that was. Hazy memories of the first time she held a boys hands came rushing back.
The hot afternoon, the fingers tracing the area where the others hand lay... the hesitation, the fear, the desire all heady unreal. The retreating finger meeting the palm. hovering, wondering .... if he wanted it too, would he respond.
the soft touch, tracing lines on each others palms.
fingers dancing.
conversing in there own tongue
the rest of her and him. pretending nothing was on
talking to the others on the table
interacting.
living 2 lives in 1.
the one touch and the possibilities it opened up.
she sighed. Tossed her sparkling hair and looked up into the sky. Grateful for her life, her world. For the people who had allowed her to be with them, and allow the language of touch to be speak.
Her eyes met those of the hair dresser. His deadpan look, implied immense boredom.The hair dryer perched on his shoulder with the 100 pocket pouch strapped against his waist.. his eyes were vacant, not even looking at her as she preened and pouted.
She pushed her chair back a notch.Startled, he collected himself and glanced at her. "would u like to see the mirror for the back view maam" ? She declined, happy with the way her hair was falling around her face, she wanted to bounce off from the chair and head out .. sashaying down the street.
Megha used to always qoute this, there is nothing like a haircut to instantly make a girl happy.. Smart child she was... ;-)
She got up. Slung her big handbag on the shoulder and marched to the billing counter
The lady there, glanced up and smiled
'nice haircut maam, suits you'
She grinned, resisting the urge to slide her fingers n toss her tresses some more. Paying her bill, she left the tip amount at the counter, not wanting to disturb her stylist in his dreams. There was something about parlours that she could not place her hands on. Either the place wanted her to sink into the nearest chair, close her eyes and surrender. Or somehow they made her squirm- where she did not feel classy enough to be there. Felt like an imposter and wanted to run.
Think it was somehow connected with the sense of comfort that was there with the person touching her. A man sitting in front of her, with her feet on his knees, scrubbing with all his might was - ' shameful?' and 'powerful' at the same time.
Dominance- a subtle feeling that comes over you when a man is bent over you. Spending his time in beautifying you. The same things when done by a women feels somehow normal, there is a sense of gratitude that comes in but somehow with a man there is a difference.
She paused as she walked, slowing down her pace. Maybe it was a childhood thing. Anything that was about personal touch she can only remember her mom doing it for her. The baths in the morning as a child, buttoning the shirt or tying her shoe laces.
Men like dad and uncles were far removed, to be used as cuddlers in the morning or at best for the occasional session spent swinging in there arms.. gleefully grinning. Men were somehow not meant to be that close, not meant to touch as much - there was an unwritten rule that she had imbibed
Interesting she thought as she walked along the street.
touch
A world onto itself. You gave license to very few people to touch you- even in a platonic manner. What defined it? Gender or the role they played in your life?
She traced the list of friends she had. Men and women. With both sides, there were some, she would not think too much about before hugging or maybe even putting her head on there shoulder. For some others - she would be careful to ensure that while the fastest banter was on, or personal conversation took place she would not get too close. not hug. not touch.
Recoiling at touch was instinctive. Even when it was innocent.
it was personal. it was about me.
even a doctor was somehow allowed in, with reluctance.
Yet this one thing- could say so much without words. She remembered the few times where someone holding her hand was enough of a reassurance.- the world was ok, that meant. .......... as much as she appreciated it. this spontaneous touch did not come easy to her. it never had.... not beyond the world of lovers or babies or dogs.
Group hugs with friends, or lying down with a lot of body contact with a bunch of girls was weird. In school, the girls wanted to hold hands even when going to the loo.. and she never got it. ever.
She smiles. Holding hands.... what an introduction that was. Hazy memories of the first time she held a boys hands came rushing back.
The hot afternoon, the fingers tracing the area where the others hand lay... the hesitation, the fear, the desire all heady unreal. The retreating finger meeting the palm. hovering, wondering .... if he wanted it too, would he respond.
the soft touch, tracing lines on each others palms.
fingers dancing.
conversing in there own tongue
the rest of her and him. pretending nothing was on
talking to the others on the table
interacting.
living 2 lives in 1.
the one touch and the possibilities it opened up.
she sighed. Tossed her sparkling hair and looked up into the sky. Grateful for her life, her world. For the people who had allowed her to be with them, and allow the language of touch to be speak.
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