The Leiry Loop

I don’t like it when you tie your hair up.

I don’t like it when you pull out a ribbon, or a lace, or any kind of string—god forbid, not even your ID cord out from your… hammerspace and sweep the ends of your perfect tresses, setting them together in a deathly lock. I can almost hear the strands of your hair scream in distress, in despair, in immovable compactness: liberty; free them I will from those chains that bind—if only, but I lie.

I lie. I couldn’t care less of your prisoners: render them unable to do the waltz together with the alluring lead of the evening breezes or play tag with the playful morning wind; that is entirely up to you. Given, I take pity, but sympathy—sympathy I can only give through a glance and an occasional cringe, if you have chosen to tie your hair up in the most… dullest of ways.

Nay, I have reasons of personal range and differing diversity as to why I don’t like you locking your locks.

I don’t like it when you tie your hair up, when you leave your nape exposed and bare—and my eyes the north will be attracted to your fair, vulnerable, unblemished south pole… staring… stare… Alas, in a cruel twist of fate I was born a human, and much as I want to sink my canines, anchor it in your neck I could not, lest I be shunned by society I thoroughly despise for constructing such stale norms. And so I will settle with a simple caress, my finger lightly tracing an invisible trail of dots and circling around forming miniature whirlpools of longing… perhaps, for a miracle.

I don’t like it when you tie your hair up, when your cheeks are finally in plain view—the waves of brownish black framing your face no longer, your defensive measures from the glares of the thieves of time and moment lifted. In an unreasonable fit of selfishness I will undo your hair-work, and the frame will once again fall on both sides, obscuring your mischievous smile from the many that might snatch it away from me. I warrant your apology but I fall short of regret, for I am one of the blessed few close enough to witness that smile and I condemn your ponytail for revealing it to the crookedness of the world.

I don’t like it when you tie your hair up, when my fingers lose the chance to have your disheveled threads in between them, to run my hands from the top of your head slowly… slowly… down, down, until it hits empty air or if in the opportune of times that I am on your side, your shoulder… the tip of your sleeve… your arm… making its way to your wrist… it does not stop there, it does not; until at last the familiar feel of your warm palm and your prints closing in on mine… Woe, it dashes one too many a dream when you say onto me: Don’t touch my hair, else you’ll ruin it.

You see now, if granted a wish from a genie of the olden tales, I will banish forever the existence of pins, of ribbons, of laces, of ID cords, of any accessory or ornament that will enable you to put a stop to the waltz—or I will have to make do with stealing them from you, everyday… every minute I can.

I don’t like it when you tie your hair up. Please, don’t.