Samson, it is told, lost his great strength when he allowed Delilah to cut his long hair. Here was a man who held up the pillars of the temple with his testeroned toned muscles. Bulging biceps and taut triceps, chomping at the bit, foaming at the mouth, clamoring to show off their massive power in raw tribute to the physiological triumph of man. The conquest of matter held aloft by shoulders straining to support the doomed vision of left-brained brawn. All because he had long hair? Were his manly tresses empowered by some cosmic link to coiffured superiority? Some ancient brotherhood of protein? Did he know secret handshakes and code words?
Delilah had long hair, too. She did not hold up the temple. More like she held up her skirts in tantalizing, mesmerizing invitations to surrender to wild lust. Hardly the activity any stalwart pillar protector would follow. Samson must have been confused when he felt her snake around his body, writhing her signature into the sinew of his senses. In his bewilderment, he found himself seduced by the dance and paid for his lapse of architectural duties with the nocturnal snipping of his mane.
Yes, Delilah had long hair, too. Caressed by fragrant flower essences entwined with beads of precious stones and jewels bestowed upon her in exchange to watch her dance – that ancient rite of generations of women whose bellies undulated and breasts shimmied to the primal music of the flesh of the Goddess herself. Could hair belonging to such a woman give her the power to hold up a stone temple of man? HAH! Mere child’s play. A boring waste of her ruby emerald energy that could dismantle entire kingdoms with the arch of her back.
So why did she cut his hair? Why not revel in the musky union with the one man who could at least hold her on the pillar that rose when he saw her eyes above the veil – those eyes – that commanded him to “LOOK AT ME.” “See me and nothing else. Feel me in the essence of your being. You are mine! Mine to conquer with the power of a silken shoulder, seduce with the hypnotic spiral of my navel as I coil you into the inner realms of time itself.”
Did she cut his hair so he would forget the promise to support any creation other than the curve of her breast? The crack of time in the parting of her lips? “YES! Take my hair – cut the locks that bind me to the patriarchal palace! Let me live again inside the cauldron of your desires, the belly of creation, the ecstasy of eternal dance!”
I see there are loose hairs on my bathroom floor and similar escapees in the brush that separates the strands of my own hair, graying now, but descended from that seductive barber from so long ago. Part of Delilah lives in me, moves in me, and seduces me with her memories. Is my bathroom floor a message of nocturnal snippings to liberate me from the oh so weary duty of holding up the pillars of patriarchal slavery? Am I being called to surrender to the dance? Do I hear the faint sounds of silver bells shaken by the controlled frenzy of female hips gyrating to the music of the night? Oh Delilah, have you come for me?