“In praise of mu husband's hairA woman is alone in labor, for it is an unfortunate fact that there is nobody who can have the baby for you. However, this account would be inadequate if I did not speak to the scent of my husband's hair. Besides the cut flowers he sacrifices his lunches to afford, the purchase of bags of licorice, the plumping of pillows, steaming of fish, searching out of chic maternity dresses, taking over of work, listening to complaints and simply worrying, there was my husband's hair. His hair has always amazed stylists in beauty salons. At his every first appointment they gather their colleagues around Michael's head. He owns glossy and springy hair, of an animal vitality and resilience that seems to me so like his personality. The Black Irish on Michael's mother's side of the family have changeable hair--his great-grandmother's hair went from black to gold in old age. Michael's went from golden-brown of childhood to a deepening chestnut that gleams Modoc black from his father under certain lights. When pushing each baby I throw my arm over Michael and lean my full weight. When the desperate part is over, the effort, I turn my face into the hair above his ear. It is as though I am entering a small and temporary refuge. How much I want to be little and unnecessary, to stay there, to leave my struggling body at the entrance.Leaves on a tree all winter that now, in your hand, crushed, give off a dry, true odor. The brass underside of a door knocker in your fingers and its faint metallic polish. Fresh potter's clay hardening on the wrist of a child. The slow blackening of Lent, timeless and lighted with hunger. All of these things enter into my mind when drawing into my entire face the scent of my husband's hair. When I am most alone and drowning and I think I cannot go on, it is breathing into his hair that draws me to the surface and restores my small courage. ”

“Water matted his black hair into spikes and peppered his skin with a fresh sheen. If I shut my eyes I could still see the one who bound me, his smile bright as the white sun as he emerged from our latest dip in the sea. I fought the sudden urge to bury my face in his chest and run my fingers through that hair.”

“His hands dive into my hair and he tilts my head to the side. His tongue slips into my mouth and I taste the most delicious flavor in the world-Trick. Unbridled. Unreserved. Unfettered. All I can think of is how much I want him-want his skin against me, want his hands all over me, want his body inside me. I am ravenous and the only thing that can satisfy me is Trick.”

“I have Michael's number on my phone. I could call him and ask him to come over."I'd do whatever it took to talk to Michael. If that included serving up some extra crazy with a side of sauce, so be it."Babe?" he called over his shoulder to Dru, watching me with wide eyes as I kept singing, twirling my hair around my finger. "You might wanna hurry.”

“I first tasted under Apollo’s lips,love and love sweetness,I, Evadne;my hair is made of crisp violetsor hyacinth which the wind combs backacross some rock shelf;I, Evadne,was made of the god of light.His hair was crisp to my mouth,as the flower of the crocus,across my cheek,cool as the silver-cresson Erotos bank;between my chin and throat,his mouth slipped over and over.Still between my arm and shoulder,I feel the brush of his hair,and my hands keep the gold they took,as they wandered over and over,that great arm-full of yellow flowers.”

“Mara, I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. And when you're ready for me to show you," he said, brushing my hair to the side, "I'm going to kiss you." His thumb grazed my ear and his hand curved around my neck. He leaned me backward and my eyes fluttered closed. I breathed in the scent of him as he leaned in and kissed the hollow under my ear. My pulse raced under his lips."And I won't settle for anything less.”