Imagine that Person A offers themselves to brush people B's hair, and keeps thinking on how wonderful their hair feels between their fingers.
"May I?" It's both an invitation and a veiled command as he holds out the tortoise-shell brush. She's exhausted and exasperated enough to nod wearily and turn her back to him.
It's raining outside, the water heavy against his windows, loud enough to drown the crackling of the fire in the hearth. It's half-past two in the morning and she came to him an hour ago drenched to the core, with her spirits just as sodden, after a grueling shift. She's showered and clean, now dressed in one of his plain yet fluffy bathrobes, and trying to tame her hair into submission.
Hairdryers had been one of her favourite inventions, but it could only do so much to the fine carmine strands that liked to bundle and tangle and knot. She's irritated and tired and he wants to help.
The bristles are soft against her scalp and his touch gentle as he smoothes the hair into a slick fall of red. Her hair is her pride and joy, and it's always fascinated him.
It reminds him of Titian ladies and Pre-Raphaelite maidens with their wild hair and untamed, mysterious gazes.
It reminds him of fine silk threads from the Orient, dyed with thousands of safflowers to achieve their brilliant bloody hue. It feels much the same, he notes, as he runs his fingers through the strands.
It looks and feels much like the rest of her- deceptively silken soft, yet passionately fiery and seductive and as mad as mad can be.