The brush underfoot is tender and soft, and I don't regret wearing open-toed shoes. I push deeper into the woods, not really satisfied with how far I've gotten before I'm stopped by a steep slope down into a ravine. I'm not really dressed for an adventure in the woods, so I settle on a lush looking bank that is entirely carpeted in velvety moss. I reach out to touch a log, which is deceptively soft and mushy, and crumbles under my touch. I hear something pelting through the leaves of the canopy and a piece of bark strikes me on the back of my neck. This wood seems especially enthusiastic about touching you back. A small fly crawls across my knuckles, and, panicked, I scoop a daddy long legs off of his intended path down my shirt.
I hear the wind hiss through the trees. It crescendos until I see it bending the plants in front of me, and feel it stirring the hair around my face. My hair tickles the backs of my arms as it's blown around by the wind, and I am reminded of the substantial amount of hair that I possess.
People are always reminding me of this.
Sometimes I feel like I can relate who pregnant women who have strange people come up and rub their bellies, as if their large tummy somehow extends a privilege to anyone who wants to touch it. Similarly, I have large numbers of people approach me and grab a fistful of my hair, commenting on it's length or thickness. Many times I have to remind them that it is still attached to my head, and if I'm annoyed enough, I'll hold onto a bunch of their hair as well.
Much to the horror of my mother, I occasionally threaten to cut it all off. People call me Rapunzel, Lady Godiva, and make references to mermaids. I always like to receive a compliment, but over time, I start to feel as though I am being identified solely by my hair. Sometimes I feel as though it has taken on a life of it's own (tangle and maintenance jokes aside) and it exists separately from me, despite being attached to my head. It has a beauty that is not mine, that does not belong to me. At the risk of sounding vain, I would prefer to be a pretty girl than a girl attached to something pretty.
I find both halves engaging, and you handle the transition well. But it might also be interesting to try a more closely interwoven combination of the two pieces--juxtaposing sentences with each other as opposed to segregating the outer and inner experiences.
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