I have always had an exceedingly tender scalp. So much so, that I can barely stand being touched on the top of my head.
Being of small stature and looking young for my age has invited countless unwanted pats on my head, engendering a primal anger that makes me want to punch the head-patter as hard as I can in their face. It is not an emotional response to being condescended to or physically violated. Rather it is an involuntary visceral reaction that I have absolutely no control over.
I've reached back into the far recesses of my memory to find the cause for my violent reaction to being touched on the top of my head and have come up with a few possible explanations.
When I was five, Joey Carson hit me over the head with a large building block. Although it was a show of his undying love for me, I was bereft both at the physical discomfort and the idea that someone other than my big sister would want to physically harm me.
The following day he apologized and presented me with a gold four-leaf clover brooch with a pearl set in the center that I'm certain he stole from his mother. I kept that brooch for years.
Then there was the issue of my hair. My mother was very thorough about my physical hygiene and my hair was no exception. She dug her nails into my scalp and scrubbed for all she was worth.
In her defense, seborrheic dermatitis runs in our family and she was trying to keep it at bay. But those baths were torture and while they did keep my scalp healthy, having my hair washed became a dreaded event.
Finally, there were the ponytails, pig tails and buns that my mother prepared for my days at school. All of these required rubber bands, an invention so evil and cruel they should have come with a warning not to use on children's hair.
Mom took every bit of my hair, brushed it and then pulled it so tightly she could have made money as a plastic surgeon doing temporary facelifts. Once the hair was pulled as tightly as possible and my eyebrows had risen upwards of an inch, she took a rubber band and wrapped it around my hair allowing its superpowers to hold every hair in place for literally an entire day.
Throughout the day, my scalp would throb and become more and more sensitive until I'm sure my chakra up there sustained permanent damage, which explains a lot.
The rubber bands were the bane of my existence. Removing them was always traumatic as my hair would get tangled into them and not only was my scalp extremely sore, but now it was getting pulled with little clumps of hair coming out with the rubber band.
Most people who know me well are aware of this strange physical quirk and steer clear of my head. They have all been warned.
When I first started seeing my husband, he delighted in stroking my face and head, endearments I'm sure any other lover would have embraced.
We had to have the talk.
He was slightly confused, and more convinced than ever that I was the strangest woman he had ever met. I know this because he told me so. Fortunately, this endeared me to him.
Occasionally, he would forget and stroke the top of my head and I would have to remind him through gritted teeth, that he had touched the top of my head and entered the forbidden zone.
He always reacted in horror and remorse, knowing he had crossed the line and kicked himself for it.
Finally one day he was stroking the bottom of my head and I told him it felt really good.
"Well, how do I know where the boundary is that is off limits?" he asked.
I thought for a moment and came up with the perfect solution.
"Imagine I'm wearing a yarmulke. Just stay away from the yarmulke and you'll be fine."
For the most part, this solution has worked out well. But every now and then Peter gets carried away and enters into yarmulke territory.
That's when I have to lovingly, yet firmly say, "Stay away from the yarmulke."
And then peace and harmony are restored, despite my damaged chakra.