Between his Hands

Moments ago, he was a stranger, I thought, as his hands worked the shampoo into my hair. With my eyes closed, I imagined how, between his palms, swirled everything that is me. Was my brain his crystal ball? Was he trying to read my story, to figure me out?

Maybe he was. I made it easy; I was playing them all at once. Perhaps he wasn’t. If not, then what was he thinking as he massaged my mind? He was still human, and humans think — so said Descartes.

I wondered what story of me was building in his mind. Was it close to my memories of being? Or was I just another account, like the countless others that must slip between his hands each day — while his own thoughts wandered to his life, his loves, his pains, his little thrills, his days?

And then I thought: how interesting it would be to project my own story into another’s thoughts, just to see their reaction. For a moment, as my mind flickered and scattered between his hands, it felt like I was revealing myself… without ever being seen.

Weird thought, yes, maybe. But try it, next time someone, a stranger, washes your hair, close your eyes and ponder the idea. A foot rub doesn’t even come close; it has to be the hair.