“Does my hair look alright?” I asked as I tied it up- tied it not quite hastily, but not with the usual token attempt at care.
You raised an eyebrow, a moment of incredulity that quickly devolved into outright laughter. “Does your hair look alright?” you asked, grinning widely. “I’ve just seen you nearly naked, marked your back, spanked your bottom. And you’re asking if your hair is suitable? I couldn’t care less.”
You could not know the relief I felt then. I do not like my hair. I do not like trying to make it look the way everyone else seems to think it should. I am also well aware that my body does not look as it should, though that doesn’t cause me as much distress as perhaps might be healthy for motivational reasons.
And apparently it does not cause you much distress either; you are accepting of my frizzly, flabby self. We both know there is more to a person than appearances.
It makes me think I can trust you- trust you to know the things I try to hide, the things I know you will rightly disapprove. The things I hope you will encourage me to correct, painful though the process may be.