I feel hair draped all around my body. Profound ecstacy as waves of his locks sweep gently over me.. my own locks.. hair against hair, hair against skin, skin against skin. In my mind I lay naked in the sunlight, my hair clothing me like a thin, silk cloak. It runs to my feet and back again, stopping all along the length of my body to bid greetings, brush intimately with every nuance, exchange smells, make love, wage war, get tangled, comb itself out, scream for joy into the new day, weep in its own way for its lonely journey through its life, afraid of disembarking from its host, while yet wanting to fly free in the wind like dandelion pollen or the colours of the autumn leaves.

Strange as it may seem, my hair has a life of its own. One hundred strokes a day, wash me now!, pardon me while I shed. How often have I been told that some women would die for my hair! But it is attached to me, yet I lay no claim to it. I call it "my hair" merely because, outwardly, it is physically attached to my scalp.

My hair is as the trees, growing from the earth in which they are deeply and spiritually rooted, respirating the filth of the planetary air and transforming it into life - into oxygen. So does my hair respirate the energies it finds, transforming them into positive spirit for the rest of the world - and me - to share. Protest? Rebellion? Fie! For if my hair were an expression of any rebellion, it would imply that it is a tool, my tool; I think I have shown that both counts must be wrong.

Long hair is sexy. Long hair is powerful. Long hair is an expression of joy, of growth, of independence, of some sad emotion gone unexplored or buried, of the natural cycle of rebirth. Long hair is passionate. Long hair is respected. Long hair is natural. Long hair is.

I stand atop the highest mountain and let my hair flow out behind me into the fierce winds, and echo its praises for All That Is.