As a child, I had a friend called Liezl, who had the most beautiful ringlets. When I think about it now, her mother must've spent hours on them! It does sound a little Charles Dicken-ish too - ringlets. I'm not one-hundred-and-forty-something years old, though... It was the 80's, as in 1980's, not 1880's. There's no accounting for 80's fashion choices and, really, they were very beautiful. I used to sit behind her on the carpet for storytime and play with her hair, seeing how far up her ringlets I could put my finger without touching the edges.
I met someone the other day with equally as beautiful curls and I longed to reach over and do the same thing, luckily catching myself before I did, realising that really would be invading her personal space. It made me think, though, with a nostalgic air (seems to be a common thread running through my thoughts at the moment).
When exactly does the switch happen that turns us into grown-ups (blegh), making it unacceptable to admire someone's curls, tactilely?
16 hours ago