Hair

"It's the age of Aquari-u-uu-us....."

So Ackerman spends about a page and a half in her "Touch" section talking specifically about hair. How we use it as a symbol of social status or of social rebellion, how it is the last natural remnant of a mammal's body-covering pelt, how the tiny hairs on our bodies contribute to our sense of proprioception and the touch of our environment. Ironically enough, as I was reading this section I was laying on my futon with my head in a friend's lap, her hand almost unconsciously stroking my hair.

I think Ackerman's observations about scientific studies that stroking pets decreases stress, etc. can be applied to petting people as well. If I am lucky enough to know people that I am comfortable with enough to cuddle with them, to play with their hair or massage their shoulders without tension or awkwardness, I am going to take advantage of that essential human bonding experience of touch. It doesn't need to be sexual; indeed, I think it's better if it isn't. I ended up almost falling asleep, laying there on that couch, because the feel of my friend's hand in my hair, light though it may have been, was the most soothing and relaxing thing I had felt all day. And an hour later, our positions were reversed, she leaning on me and my hand running automatically through her hair. It's a mutually beneficial give-and-take, this unconscious petting; I get to feel comforted by giving comfort, by feeling silky strands slide through my fingers, and she gets the mini-massage of the incredibly sensitive but rarely touched muscles on her scalp.

I remember in elementary school, we would gather in the library for story time. Twenty to twenty-five small children would crowd onto the soft carpet in the story corner, sit cross-legged or sprawl on their stomachs, and immediately commence playing with each others' hair. It was my favorite time of the week, because I could sit behind one of my classmates and attempt to braid her long tresses while another girl sat behind me and simply ran her fingers from my scalp to the tips of my hair like a comb. My teacher stopped us sometimes when we stopped paying attention to the story, but she never discouraged us or told us angrily to keep our hands to ourselves.

I fail to see why we shouldn't just pet and stroke and caress each other as a matter of daily life. Our culture demands physical separation; we get uncomfortable if a stranger so much as stands too close to us, "invades our personal space." That bubble of noli me tangere tends to shrink or even disappear with people we've known for a while, like family, or are consciously comfortable with, like good friends or significant others. But why does it exist at all? If touch is so important to our well-being and happiness, even our bodily health, why do we keep each other at arms' length?