Vestige of Femininity

by "Vestige of Femininity"

I was seated in front of the mirror in the bedroom of our cottage combing my hair in preparation for bed. It had been a long day spent mostly out on the windy downs and although my hair had started out on top of my head, much had fallen out and managed to become tangled and unruly. Holmes, as usual, was looking none the worse for the same activity. After bathing and dressing in a comfortable dressing gown he was curled up cat-like in the chair by the fire seemingly engrossed in a book.

I examined my reflection in the glass as I proceeded to minister to my unmanageable mop. My hair was very pale. I supposed I could not have expected any different since both my parents had been blond. It did match my pale complexion though I had sometimes wondered if a little contrast might be more appealing. I have to say that I generally prefer to keep my hair long as I find it less fuss and bother than the styles that are popular at present. However, as I struggled to lay some order to its waist length I had to wonder. With one hand I pulled back all my hair behind my head and examined the effect. First on the right and then on the left. As I did so I felt a pair of eyes regarding me.

"Holmes, what do you think?" I looked at him through the glass.

He put the book down, "Think about what, Russell?"

"Do you think I should cut my hair?"

"NO!"

The force with which this single word was uttered caused me to drop my hair and stare in his direction in wonder. He had the courtesy to look sheepish as he uncurled his long legs out from under him and said, "I am sorry, Russell. That was not supposed to come out quite that way."

This was no explanation for the outburst. I guess the astonished look still had not left my face because as he rose and moved to pick up the comb from the floor where I had dropped it, he continued, "What I meant to say was, why would you want to do that? You once told me that you preferred long hair." He stepped behind me and continued where I had left off, untangling and combing the strands with expert care as he has done for me on more than one occasion in the past.

He was referring to an incident a few years past, when we were still teacher and student. I had just administered to some particularly nasty wounds on Holmes' back using the only anesthetic at hand, a fellow student's brandy. He had fallen asleep face down on my bed as I sat before the fire drying and combing my hair. Or, I thought he was asleep. Holmes' slurred voice suddenly came out of the darkness saying that he had once asked Mrs. Hudson why I kept my hair so long. I remember at the time I had thought how odd that Holmes would be contemplating my hair of all things and that he would even ask a third party about it. My memory of this particular occasion made me smile up at his reflection in the glass, "I'm surprised that you remember that conversation. You were half asleep and more than half drunk at the time."

He did not reply to this and his face showed nothing but complete concentration for his task.

I went back to my original thought, "I was just thinking that maybe it was time for a change. It is rather old fashioned this way and maybe one of these new 'bobs' might not be too difficult to manage. What do you think?"

I noticed a distinct wince at the word 'bobs.' As he continued his careful combing he said in the manner of one about to deliver a long and boring speech, "Well Russell," a long ponderous pause, "as I was born during our late Queen's reign, you might say I am a man of somewhat Victorian convention-"

I couldn't help a snort of laughter at that, "Oh, come now Holmes! You are the most unconventional man I know, Victorian or otherwise! I have to admit that at one time I was duped by that Victorian gentleman routine of yours but I have come to realize that it is merely a convenient facade, much like your rheumatism. I sometimes wonder if our late Queen really knew just how unconventional you could be at times she may not have been so quick to offer you that knighthood."

In mock effrontery he replied, "I believe she was completely aware of my eccentricities. She once asked me -"

These too obvious attempts at changing the subject were an indication to me that Holmes was feeling some discomfort regarding the subject of hair. Why this should be so, was a puzzle to me but I thought (with some devilment) that to prolong this might afford some entertainment for the evening.

"Oh no, husband, I'm not letting you change the subject that easily although I would enjoy hearing about your conversation with Her Former Majesty at another time." I tried to keep my voice neutral as I asked, "What I would like to know is, do you prefer long hair on a woman?"

He shrugged in a noncommittal manner, "I have no preferences one way or the other on the matter."

He wasn't going to give me the satisfaction. I tried again, "Then let me rephrase the question. Do you prefer long hair on me?"

After a few seconds of silent combing and my watchful looks, he finally said, "Alright, my dear Russell," he stopped combing and returned my gaze in the mirror. "I can see you are not going to let this go. So I am going to confess something to you now. I give you fair warning that it is a wholly sentimental fancy of mine. I don't know if you are ready for it but that is a chance I will have to take if I am going to get any peace this night."

My questioning frown was met with an amused smile. "I fully admit that I have been inordinately fond of your tresses for a very long time." Again the crooked smile at my bemused look.

This was an incredible statement from a man who I would have sworn had no interest in such frivolous feminine matters. Watson would be dumbfounded. I know I certainly was.

He continued, "I believe this little predilection of mine stems from the fact that before we married, this lovely cloud of hair of yours afforded me the only means I had to comfort you when you were in need." He snorted at the astonished look on my face, "And for an observant woman of your obvious intellect you have been amazingly blind to this."

I was completely flabbergasted. What on earth was he talking about? and I asked as much, "What ever do you mean?"

"If you think back, there have been many clues throughout our association." He looked at me expectantly.

When I didn't reply, he continued his administrations to my hair and asked, "Do you remember those nights on the ship out of Palestine? After those interminable days of savaging each other for the sake of our plan to make the world believe that we were at each other's throats?"

I remembered the time he spoke of. Those appalling and exhausting days of forced anger and hostility. How hard it was to reconcile the feelings of the character I was playing with my own true feelings. At night when the crew was asleep we were able to relax and be ourselves for a short time. But it was more difficult for me than for Holmes. I suppose with his years of experience he was able to slip in and out of character with greater ease. I did remember that one night aboard the ship when his long cool fingers caressed my scalp, moving out through my hair methodically, rhythmically, easing my troubled mind with each stroke, bringing much needed sleep. And it was a caress, I realized now. God, I was blind.

When I continued to stare he said, "It was a difficult act to pull off. That playacting of ours and those awful nightmares of yours were making your life quite miserable. I wanted desperately to hold you in my arms and comfort you. But as your teacher and colleague I had no right. And it would not have been appropriate. Indeed," he chuckled, "you probably would have come to think of me as your 'dear father Sherlock' and I definitely did not want that! Do close your mouth, Russell. It is most unbecoming."

My mouth clamped shut, but I'm sure it did nothing to erase the look of complete astonishment on my face. He continued talking matter of factly, "There have been many other incidents. The one that comes to mind off hand is a dark day in that house in Essex when it was obvious to me that any overt or conventional approach to comfort you would only be interpreted as pity on your part." A mild amused snort escaped him as he said, "Come to think of it, combing out that tangled mass was probably more therapeutic for me than it was for you. It gave me something concrete to do."

Another memory came back to me. I said more to myself than to him, "I remember another time on a grassy hilltop when those very clever hands through my hair made me feel safe and gave me a few moments of respite from a another troubling time." I was remembering the aftermath of the Patricia Donleavy affair and my recuperation from a very nasty bullet wound to my shoulder and to my psyche.

His eyebrows rose and fell, "Ah yes. That was another time you were wrestling with some demons and, as I recall, you were doing your very best to drive me away," he paused and a sadness reached his eyes, "I thought I was going to lose you then. First, I feared for your very life as a result of your physical wounds. Then, I feared for what would become of mine if your emotional wounds drove you away from me. I could not think of any magical words or deeds to ease your troubled spirit. Again, the only thing that I was left with was this incredible mane that you possess," and he let a handful of hair fall through his elegant fingers.

These memories seen in their newfound light were causing an inexplicable tightness in my throat and I was having trouble finding my voice. I stood then and faced him. With some effort I said, "My dear Holmes, hair or no hair, your comfort has always been in your obstinate unwillingness to leave my side no matter how objectionable my mood was or how offensive my rants." I shook my head and put my hand to his cheek, "You should never, ever underestimate the comforting power of your very solid presence in my life." With his thumb he brushed away some moistness that had appeared on my cheek, then turned his head and kissed my hand.

Sometime later, as my hair formed a curtain between our heads and the rest of the room, I thought once again of it's length, only to be completely distracted from any thought whatsoever. And, except in the shortened form of the proper name, the word 'bob' was never spoken of again.