About Face

The Head

85 The Head The head of an adult has a different feel than that of a child. A child moves his head very freely and often; he shakes, tilts it side to side, nods front and back—and even uses his head to charge at someone with whom he is angry. The adult moves his head slowly. He holds it with a studied stillness that sends a message of focus, difficulty, and concentration . He owns his head. He owns it with a hard-earned arrogance that knows its unbearable weight. And if you touch this possession even in a gesture of careless affection or simply carelessly—that matured adult might turn on you. You might also feel like washing your hands right away. Even if the head you just handled didn’t stink or feel sweaty—you’ll still need to rinse off the memory of intimacy that coats your fingertips. I have touched a child’s head a million times and nonetheless have barely any outstanding tactile memories of it. I do remember holding a newborn’s head in the palm of the hand: it’s warm, fuzzy and uneven. I remember once approaching a curly black-haired head, bent down among a group of children who were resting on the ground after a tiresome tour of my large house—it’s a kind of inherited museum, you see. I was standing when I patted the top and let my fingers sink into her curls. The head turned slowly upwards and I knew instantly, but still too late, that I had just mistakenly patted the head of an adult. She wasn’t smiling. My eyes traveled down, recognizing the swell of her breasts and the slightly awkward position of her bent legs. She no longer blended in that field of shifting little heads. ...