Hair

Summary: Now, I know that there's some rule out there that says men shouldn't base their feelings on the way a woman looks. I also know that there are similar rules about attractions to 2ICs. But let's pretend that neither exist for just a moment. I realized today that I am in love…with Carter's hair.

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate or its characters. I am borrowing and playing.

For everyone who has ever fallen in love with Sam Carter's hair


Now, I know that there's some rule out there that says men shouldn't base their feelings on the way a woman looks. I also know that there are similar rules about attractions to 2ICs. But let's pretend that neither exist for just a moment.

I realized today that I am in love…with Carter's hair.

I also realized that there are many reasons why that was a bad revelation to make to myself. Regulations for starters…although I'm not entirely sure that there is a regulation banning infatuations with a colleague's hair. I have, on occasion, found myself enamoured with General Hammond's liberal locks, and I'm not afraid of denying it. But there's just something different about Carter's hair. There's just something different about Carter in general, to be perfectly honest.

But let's start with the micro-analysis before we head to the macro (which I'm fairly certain does involve an infringement of the fraternization regulations to some degree). But I digress. Micro. The hair.

Carter's hair has this excellent way of curling just under her ears so that it curves around her cheeks. Or at least she did before Brenna hacked it all off and stamped our memories. That was when I was most in love with her hair. I ran my fingers through that hair. I kissed her mouth while feeling that hair, or that back, or that face. Carter doesn't remember this of course. Her memory of all hair-touching was conveniently erased by the Ancients' Groundhog Day Machine.

Her hair smells like fruit, I guess. Some kind of fruit that is sweet and spicy at the same time. Come to think of it, it's not that difficult to smell her hair. She's the perfect height for a good elevator-hair-sniff every now and then. She never notices. Sometimes I don't even notice until that waft of pure bliss floats up the old nostrils. Hair-sniffing. It's addictive. Could even be deadly if Hammond ever caught me. Seriously. Tobacco is child's play compared to that blond stuff!

Surely it can't just be me who has a crush on that woman's hair. Unbelievable. Jack O'Neill, pushing through his fifties having a crush! On a woman's hair, no less. Maybe Daniel would know what I mean. Then again, maybe not. I can see him now, lips pursed in that superior archeologist way, looking down at me for judging a woman by her hair. He'd be wrong, of course. I'd wager I'd have a crush on Carter's hair even if it was balding or covered in lice or made entirely out of shoelaces.

That's it. I've crossed the point of no return. I am an old madman, stalking a woman I have no right to and no claim over, purely because her hair makes me want to dance naked through the Swiss Alps with a giraffe.

But there's no regulation against hair-attraction. And until someone can prove that my attraction is anything beyond follicle-fondness, I am safe. Safe to sniff till my heart's content.