If you’re in queue in front of me, I just might reach out and discreetly touch your hair. I do it for the rush it provides, because it is bad, and I am bad, and everyone would be angry with me if they knew. If you knew. Which you won’t. Don’t worry, I take the responsibility seriously: My hands are always clean, and I would never allow my hand to linger, or allow my fingers to grab hold, or to yank. Just a passing brush—just slight enough to feel the texture. And brief. Just long enough to allow your soul to transfer from you to me, so that I might maintain my preternaturally youthful appearance.