Long hair

There are hair - monuments of nature. They must be guarded, entered into the Red Book and assigned to them special rangers.

It was such a huntsman that I self-appointed to guard the head of my own spouse. Her hair is difficult to describe - they need to be seen. And it is better to pull, feel, burrow, dive into them, inhale their scent, take pictures of them in daylight, evening, moonlight and stroke in love (when nothing else remains).

Their color varies depending on the lighting, hairstyle and - I suspect - the mood of their hostess. In one day, Dasha can visit a brunette, a brown-haired woman, a blonde and a redhead; brunette - in the shade or in the water, walnut-bronze brown - in cloudy weather, golden-red - in a clear, blonde - against the bright, sparkling sun, which seemed to surround her head with fiery tongues, taking Dasha in her sisters.

They are curly, and this says nothing. They are SUCH curly - it is impossible to believe that every hair of this cheerful sparkling vortex can (in theory) be pulled with a straight chord; it seems that they grow like wild steppe bindweed - from everywhere at once.

Her curls are exactly like those that are painted on vulgar pictures depicting unprecedented beauties on the bed of passion - it is customary to think about such ones that they do not exist. Long, up to the shoulder blades, rich bronze with a copper tint, soft-soft, like silk or cambric, thick-thick — try to see the skin on the head — and incredibly curly. Only not in Negro - with separate hairs, but in our opinion, in Brazyl style - in locks.

Hair - Dashkina pride and Dashkin cross. Combing it after sleep is a task, each accomplishment of which is a courageous step, each completion is a feat. Strictly speaking, her curls are only combed wet, after washing. Then, drying out, they twist even more, as befits any decent curls. The fatal circle closes.

... For this occupation you need a special comb - otherwise Dashunya risks remaining without a scalp. Of course, such a labor feat can not be performed daily; uncombed, her hair looks dazzling in general, but every day it is harder and harder to comb; the logical end of such criminal negligence, according to Dashka, is a big felt boot instead of the head. Aunt Zhenia, hairdresser and make-up artist, teaches her to treat her hair. The lessons started from the cradle - Dasha got out of her mother already curly, - and continues to this day ...

Like any miracle, her hair is whimsical: in addition to combing, they require a lot of other victims.

First, she is hot. Carry a thigh hat on your head all year round! And especially - in the summer, when 38 is in the shade and asphalt melts. Dasha is trying to tie them up, somehow opening the neck to the saving breeze, but they are reluctant to hold onto their heads, using the slightest reason to drain the golden waterfall back to their back - and the head is not sweet: get two instead of one lamb cap three ... Pulling them into a tight knot is no easier than doing the same with a thick flowerbed.

Secondly, they climb into the face and eyes. When Dasha the artist draws, she always unconsciously throws the curls away from her forehead with a hand smeared in paint, and after some time a small rainbow appears on her forehead and above him. The only way out is to fix the hair with an elastic bandage around the forehead, - but, again, it's hot ... Only recently Dasha found a way out that is as simple as an orange: a hoop. True, every two hours he slides under the pressure of rebelling curls out, but this is not such a disaster.

Thirdly, Dasha's hair told her to say goodbye to a whim to wear a headdress: there are so many of them, and they are so elastic — for all their softness — that the poor head does not fit anything on Dashkin except knitted winter hats.And then - the largest sizes, disproportionate with the figure Dasha, well - otherwise the Inquisition would envy the head so squeezed! Dasha found a creative way out, as always, and sews her own hats. But about caps, as such, has long been forgotten.

In the fourth, in the fifth and so on - insects are constantly confused in curls; curls can not be braided in a pigtail; curls terribly tickled; curls require special expensive shampoos, balms and conditioners, as well as regular visits to a beauty salon; curls weave into dead loops and cling to everything in the world, without missing a single belt from the bag; curls climb in the wind into the eyes, with any hairstyle not allowing to see absolutely nothing - and so on and so forth.

As you can see, Dasha's miracle, like any miracle, consists almost entirely of its drawbacks. Actually, his dignity is only one thing - that it is a miracle.

***

And now - around this miracle the atmosphere soars all the time, saturated with fluids of risk and confused sexual dostoevschiny. Between the miracle, Dasha and me, a triangle of complex relations was formed, which no psychoanalyst will undertake to unravel.

Dasha, undoubtedly, appreciates and loves his miracle. But this is not the calm love of the mistress for her offspring, it is the paradoxical, dual-style and masochistic love of the victim for his tormentor, the heathen to his god, love-hate, "which burns and destroys."

Dasha will never dare to part with her mop, which has become part of her "I." But she is constantly overwhelmed with the desire to do her little dirty tricks, to degrade, ridicule, carnivally lower it. She uses any reason to wring her in everything that is smeared: paint with gouache, roll in clay or in mud, sprinkle with chalk ... Such masochism, of course, requires additional efforts to care for a miracle, but - for that she and dostoevschina, to "say reason - goodbye!"

When Dasha begins to be filled with thirst for new impressions (the state, for her, in general, is normal) - she dyes her hair with colorful gouache mixed with shampoo and goes to the institute in that form - and then I wash my head for half an hour (this is, by the way, , we adore to the squeak and blissfully-shameful pinking of the cheeks - both she and I); she finds a thick puddle, scoops up dirt with handfuls and slips it into her bindweed, turning the curly head into a brilliant cosmonaut helmet; She regularly teases me with dreams aloud - to repaint, shave or shave bald ...

My role, it would seem, is defined clearly and clearly: to be a huntsman, and as such, to protect the natural miracle in every possible way from the destructive inclinations of his naughty mistress (or slave girl). But the trouble is that in me the adoration of a miracle is combined with an exciting, sadistic, inexplicable, forbidden, and therefore - a sweet desire to abuse him.

Any porn is a coarse, tasteless biology compared to the subtlest erotic languor that this fetish causes. It is very difficult to define: it is elusive, like love itself and death itself. Perhaps, the piercing eroticism of our attitude towards Dasha's head of hair is associated with the special sensitivity of her skin on the head, which in our country is the main erogenous zone after those most; it is necessary to hold a finger from ear to back of the head - and Dashunya wheezes and freezes, his eyes grow cold, and the cave begins to ooze with moisture of love.

Shampooing is not less intimate and exciting than bud kisses between your legs. Therefore, we are always secluded for this procedure, and rare visits to the hairdresser for Dasha is one of her most embarrassing and sweet pleasures. Affectionate girl-hairdresser, - as Dashka once told me, pinking and tucking herself under my arm, - is able to spew out from her pussy the streams of moisture flowing in trickles on my legs; and if Dashka decided to caress herself at this moment, she would have received an incredible orgasm.

There is nothing to do - I had to go to a consultation with my aunt Zhenya, to conduct a hair care session of her assistant, the very affectionate one under her guidance ...