who could blame him, really?

I don't leave my hair down often.
The strands are long, too long, and they get pinned to seat backs or shut into doors. My locks get wrapped around stranger's hands and groped by the casual acquaintance. Magnetically pulling people in that wouldn't normally talk to me, the ropes glistening and beckoning. Even I get caught by my hair, sometimes, waking up with my tresses wrapped around my wrists or brushing the mane till it stands out like a halo of static electricity. When I turn my head fast enough, the friction between individual hairs sounds like a chorus of bells.
I left it down, tonight, straight and parted down the middle, smelling like honey and sunshine, before I went to see a friend tonight.
She went in to the back room, and he came running in for something; I forgot immediately what he'd been looking for when he wrapped his hands around my neck, cutting off air supply.
A second there, and my brain flooded me with awareness of the velvet of the couch, the soft light on the wall, the scent of burned french fries and cologne, the ballad playing in the background, the warmth of his hands.
Another second, and his hands were caught in my hair, pulling it back, doubling the strands around his fingers, pushing into my scalp, relieving the pressure and the tension in my neck. His eyes closed as his hands wrapped and pulled and fell into my hair. And then he was gone, as abruptly as he'd walked into the apartment.

I'm not sure if my hair just saved my life, or if leaving it down was asking for all of the beautifully wrong things in this world.