...shoulder length or longer/ here baby, there mama/ everywhere daddy daddy....
I catch myself vocalizing in the shower.
The other day, the woman in the stall next to mine was so enthusiastically vocal in her, uh, activities that I had to stifle my snickers with excessive flushing.
But here I am, vocalizing, a low hmmmmmmmmmmm of pleasure.
It's silky in my palm, satiny as I fold it in my hair, and the scent is delightful.
I really like my new conditioner.
The shampoo not so much; it has an acrid fragrance that burns my nostrils, and the suds sting my eyes.
Sun kisses my cheeks, breeze ruffles my hair from the hasty braid snaking down my spine. The Questing Sniff holds his leash in his mouth and trots smartly along the sidewalk.
A swarthy man in a delivery truck and a couple of teenagers in a borrowed sedan slow down to vocalize in my general direction. I check behind me: nobody.
Hello? I'm wearing yoga pants and ballet flats, here. And the dog's not wearing anything particularly eye-catching, either.
Must be spring fever. Or maybe my new conditioner.
(Hair; lyrics, James Rado & Gerome Ragni music, Galt MacDermot)