It gets in his face and tickles his nose when I turn over in bed. I hear his "pffffft"s as he tries to puff my tresses away.
It is invasive, my hair. It gets in his mouth, and mine, as we kiss. It obscures my face, and his view, when I lower my head and trail my tongue down his body. It collects crumbs, twigs and small creatures with an efficiency to rival that of my cleavage.
It takes forever to wash, longer to dry, and I never brush it. It is best to let it run wild and free, untamed by styling aids. It writhes, Medusa-like, in thick coils and breaks combs, snaps elastic bands and trashes any hair accessory that tries to encroach upon it's hairy domain.
Yet despite it's bad behaviour and unruly nature, this is the good hair, the favoured hair. The hair I lavish expensive shampoo and loving attention upon.
The hair that grows in my armpits, upon my legs and nether regions is not given such tender treatment. Body hair merits some soap and water, if it's lucky. If it's unlucky it gets razored off, torn out by the roots or burnt away with chemicals. Such harsh treatment, just for being different, for growing slightly shorter and coarser and in unfashionable places.
It doesn't go meekly, though. There are little pockets of resistance. There are the ingrown hairs with their peaceful protests, pissing me off with their "hell no, we won't go" until I have to have them forcibly removed. Then there are the hairy ghettos that spring up in the most inaccessible regions. It is a constant battle.
Maybe one day I will learn to overcome my body hair prejudice and let it grow. A new era of peace will dawn and I will stop waging an unwinnable war and embrace the Chewbacca look....