I go to a hair salon a couple times a month for the luxury of having my hair blown out. Chiefly I do so because it's a Herculean effort to do myself, but I also do so for the pleasure of having someone wash my hair. The resident serf assigned to shampooing duty is a flamboyant young man named Darleesh. I've learned that it pays to tip Darleesh a few extra dollars, because the man evolves a simple hair washing into a day at the spa. He scrubs my scalp like I've been at sea for six months and then he massages every square inch of my skull and neck while talking about his favorite recipe for lamb vindaloo. I enjoy the experience so much that I almost feel guilty.

I think it's the same reason I indulge in pedicures, Yes, it's important that a girl is always well groomed, but I also truly adore the way Rupa kneads my feet and calves until I'm practically speaking in tongues. Listen, there is a reason we pay for massage. Yes, it feels good, but there is something wonderful in being touched.

Now get your heads out of the gutter, people. Yes, that kind of touching is absolutely wonderful too, but I'm we're on a different subject plane here.

My point is simple. When people touch--even in a totally professional or anonymous capacity--it reminds us that we're alive. I do believe it's in our nature to touch; physical expression is as important in communication as verbal expression. I'm sure when our ancestors were in the Cro Magnon period, they had to express pleasure, anger, dissatisfaction and joy in some respect and likely demonstrated this through touch. How unfortunate those last few centuries of rigid social patterns have resulted in the uptight creatures we've become today.

Regardless of certain repressive mores, you really see the true nature of people at key times, say, in the wake of a disaster. At a moment like that, all dividing walls of anonymity crumble and it's natural to see strangers embracing or reaching out to one another. Of course this is a manifestation of compassion, but it also demonstrates that our first, true instinct is to reach out to others, to feel that core of life in the simple touch of a hand. I remember clearly after 9/11 here in NYC, alot of people, even strangers, touched easily and earnestly as a means to feel unified and safe.

My closest friends, and you know who you are, are witty and warm and effusive in their expressions. I treasure people who embrace others with a genuine affection. I like men who are secure enough with their own sexuality that they think nothing about embracing other men with the same affection that women express with one another.

This morning on the subway, I was seated between a man and a woman. It wasn't so crowded on the bench as to be uncomfortable by any means, but by virtue of the seats and the number of bodies pressed into them, some body part was bound to impose on a neighbor. The woman at my left was unfazed by the intrusion of my thigh against her, but the man on my right was downright put out. He looked down at my intruding limb, tried to reposition his body, snapped his newspaper sharply, huffed and twitched with clear indignation and then crossed his legs so to isolate his body from any offensive neighbors.

I think that poor man needs a hug.