When I was a kid, I used to tell my mother that I thought I had lice. Sometimes out of genuine concern, really — but it wasn't always the case. I would complain of my head itching and make a show of it because sometimes I knew, it would make her comb through my hair.
There was something so soothing about that to me. To me, it's that same sort of feeling you get when you find that perfectly warm patch of sun on the floor and you just can't help but stop to sit in it. It's peace. It's a connection. It wasn't like when she'd yank a brush through my hair, repeatedly telling me to be still and getting ornery about it. The way her fingers brushed my hair aside felt gentle. It felt real to me.
My parents have never been fond of physical contact. For as long as I can recall, hugs were kept minimum, hand-holding was only as a way to leash the child, and cuddling was almost entirely out of the question.
I don't hold it against them, truly — It's just the way things are, but sometimes I feel that it's made a rather strange impact on the way I view physical contact as a whole.
I crave it, but it terrifies me.
I never quite seem to know how long a hug is supposed to last. Even in the grimmest of situations, where I am offered a hug for comfort in a hard circumstance, I worry of my timing.
One second,
Two,
Three...
No, it's too much. This must be uncomfortable for the other person. I am inconveniencing them. I let go.
Recalling my first ever stay at a partner's house, I didn't sleep at all that night. I enjoyed the idea of cuddling, but in execution, I was so horrified by the idea of tossing and turning and disturbing my then partner that I kept myself awake.
I'm older now, and it's much less blatant, but the sentiment remains in some small way.
That night at the hotel lingers in my mind. I don't think I've ever been held that way before. I don't think anyone has tried to.
As I drift off to sleep, sometimes I imagine it again. Someone soft... Gentle, kind. Someone that had a world to give and paint with their words and explanations, telling me everything as we swapped stories.
Fingers running through my hair.
I learned to feel self-conscious of my scalp. Ashamed of it, more accurately. I've always struggled with flaky skin and my parents and peers had no hesitation in pointing it out. My parents told me I didn't wash it well enough. So I scrubbed harder. And harder. I scrubbed until my skull ached. I tried dandruff shampoo. Scrubbed harshly with that. It never worked.
But it felt nice to feel those hands course through my hair. If one moment of peace could be captured in a simple movement, that was the one. I practically melted into that embrace, as silly as it was. I was nothing but putty.
Just the thought of it makes me sleepy.
But then again, maybe that's just because I'm writing late.
