‘Pull the hair on my head the wrong way, and I would be on my knees begging for mercy. I have very sensitive follicles.’
– Benedict Cumberbatch
A friend of mine once told me that women should always have nipple length hair. She was very specific about this. She felt women should have the option to look like a mermaid every day. We should aim to be Botticellian goddesses with waves of hair cascading over our shoulders to cover our nipples. Romantic, with a capital R! It was easy for her to say – she has beautiful hair. It always looks like it has been blow dried and really does tumble effortlessly down her back as if she were a Disney princess. I have a severe case of hair envy!
Except that hair that luscious and wonderful requires a ridiculous amount of effort! I know that I could have hair like that, in the same way that I know my body could be firmer and leaner if I chose the gym over cake. It would be a commitment; I’d have to learn to blow dry and significantly upgrade my shampoo expenditure, but it is possible. And, knowing this, I’ve realised that I don’t want it. I’d rather sleep in that bit longer and spend that extra money on other more delicious things. Like cake!
Luckily my hair behaves most of the time. I haven’t yet worked out exactly what is different on good hair days compared to bad ones. The weather? Crossing my fingers a little harder? Marginally more or marginally less curl cream? Who knows. What I do know is that although nipple length hair looks gorgeous, the care it demands feels extravagant and excessive, particularly when all you really need is enough for a handful.
Enough hair for a handful – now that is a hair rule that I can support! As much as I love running my hand across short, short hair and as distinguished and handsome as a bald head can look, nothing beats hair long enough to grasp in your fingers and pull. I want hair that I can get tangled up in and hair that can really look like it’s been fucked.
And I want his fingers in my hair, pinning me down and holding me in place. I want to fight against his grip, finding that perfect point when the over-stretched, prickling pain across my scalp is still delicious and gives me goosebumps. I want to have no choice but to follow his direction; small moans escaping from my lips as changes in his grip or angle yank differently on the small follicles and force changes in my position.
He can pull me wherever he wants me and I have to comply. This could be simply to direct a change of position, hauling me up from my knees or pushing me down onto the bed, but sometimes it’s different. Sometimes his hold on my hair enforces a posture that would be otherwise impossible. I teeter on the edge of my ability to balance as he pulls me further backwards and upwards, my back arching as he fucks me from behind; falling is unthinkable without ripping out my hair and the concentration and strength needed to maintain any kind of stability ensures that I squeeze my cunt and thighs and arse tighter. My muscles strain, my lungs burn; my orgasm rushes through me like molten fire.
My hair can also play a less aggressive role; it can even used more tenderly. It can be swept aside to reveal the nape of my neck and expose the softest, most sensitive patches of skin. It can be pushed out of my eyes and wayward curls tucked behind my ears in a more affectionate gesture. And my hair can be gathered up into a bundle and lifted out of the way so that I can see him, particularly when I go down on him, and then he can also see me. Without the curtain of hair, he can watch me and I know he’s watching. And then, of course, he can lift my head by lifting that handful of hair, taking control of my movements, fucking my mouth and using it exactly as he wants.
Oh yes, my hair is always involved in sex, just as my mouth or hands or cunt might be, and it shows as my curls get wilder and more erratic. But I love that. I love trying to decide if I look like I’ve just been fucked and then choosing to go out anyway. I love untangling the matted areas later, remembering how it got into such a mess.
So yes – hair. It’s hot, even if it’s not glossy and long and beautiful, because of how it can be used and manipulated and tangled and pulled.
And, oh God, I want him to pull my hair…