Last night, as his hands had been working shampoo through my hair, I’d asked him if he had a weird hair fetish. His reply was, “Only for yours.” “Why?” I’d asked breathlessly. “I love your hair, malyshka. It’s the first part of you I saw—the back of your head at your wedding. And then you turned around and looked right at me. But you weren’t looking at me—you were looking past me, toward your new husband, with this infatuated glow in your eyes. The first woman I wanted to look at me was too busy staring at another man. That was when I started to hate him—and I still do, even though he is
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