So much glorious hair, I just want to run my hands through it, to bury my face in it, to smell it, to bask in its luxury. Copious tresses blowing in the wind, like auburn liquid flowing free, so pure, so natural. She casts it about so effortlessly, unencumbered by gravity despite its thickness and fullness, and the radiance it exudes, blinding me with its sheer, unadulterated brilliance. She gazes at me with those mesmerizing eyes and I melt into a puddle at her feet, begging her in the most embarrassing manner for one strand of her magical hair that I may cherish it always. She ponders my request and laughs, and my heart sinks, realizing I have made myself out as a fool. What a ridiculous thing to ask of such a grand lady, I deserve nothing but scorn. And yet, with such delicacy and deliberate measure, she unfurls her tresses, allowing them to whip around in the breeze with such grace and elegance, and clips not one but three strands from her blessed head. Taking my hand, she slowly folds my fingers about them and kisses my brow. I can say nothing that my tears do not already announce. Stepping back she departs, and though I am alone, in some small way she is with me now, always.