In Your Dreams…


“How could he not love your hair? It’s the same hair that grows right out of his own armpits. The same hair that crawls up out of his crotch and on his stomach. All over his chest. The very same. It grows out of his nose, over his lips, and if he ever lost his razor, it would grow all over his face. It’s all over his head. It’s his hair, too. He gotta love it. How can he love himself and hate your hair?”
—Song of Solomon, T. Morrison