My hairdresser is a very cool young woman who looks like Justin Bieber one month, then next time she’s a wicked Alice in Wonderland. She has great taste and wields a mean scissors. We visit several times a year. Our chats range from Netflix to Breaking Bad to our latest travels and my writing projects.
“Do you like how books feel?” she asks one day.
I stare at her in the mirror. My heart flutters. That’s it.
“Yes! I love how they feel, their…” My fingers move, trying to find the word. “Turningness. I love their touch and smell, old books with thick paper, and crisp new ones. Reading in the bath or before the fire or under a tree on a hot day. Escaping the noise.”
This leads of course to ebooks and travel. Audio books are new to me, but with my novel Stinger now in production for Audible.com, I’ve come to see their great appeal.
But my first love, my true and abiding love is for the most sensual of objects, books. Burying my nose in their pages, inhaling the past. Walking by my shelves, I run my finger down a spine, give one a pat, share a memory, a joke, a tear. They are my friends and traveling companions, connections to lives lived, to be lived. Magic carpets of promise.
Do I like how books feel? Oh yes, and most of all how they make me feel.
