The commuter dance was taking longer than normal since the accident but it didn’t bother me. My schedule was fluid and I had a newspaper to bide my time, and a seat for comfort. Then it happened…
A woman in a very short-sleeved t-shirt began pointing at the metro map next to me. The clomp of hair under her arm was waving to me. I ignored The Hair as best as a man who is revolted by such things could but it was like one of those pictures LiLu shows on Thursdays – drawn in indelible mental ink. This woman, and The Hair, grabbed the overhead bar – a thatch of gnarled string on display for all the world.
The Hair started winking at me. Then The Hair got pissed because I kept trying to ignore her. Then it started to grow like the incredible hulk of hair because she was pissed. Before I knew it, there were natty locks round my imagination choking the life from me.
Fighting back was futile – the ropes were thick, strong, and crippling. I tried to run, but the car was too crowded to find safe distance. This was worse than the time I couldn’t breathe; the hair had hold of my mind.
Finally my stop neared, and I darted from my seat. I became that obnoxious commuter who attempts to bend laws of physics just to be one step closer to the door. I really just needed to be one more step away from The Hair.
I don’t know if it followed me, but I sprinted the escalator just in case.