I remember white. Not the sharp violence of chalk, but a warm glow radiating through the fingertips of the sun. It would have been easy to open my eyes and embrace the gentle caress, but there was some kind of sick pleasure in waiting for the soft massage of heat to travel. Travel through the sepia coil, smoothing, reaching towards the white of my scalp until the burning knead becomes unbearable.

Tssssss…

Release is swift as the hair unfurls, catching a breath of air as I flip over to face the sun. Kisses of heat warm the lids of my eyes, tickling the baby hairs that stand to salute Ra. The easy pat of heat oozes down the microscopic follicles to smooth away the bumps of cold, stroking, rubbing, pushing until…