So my gynecologist’s office was packed, no seats left. Pregnant moms had squirmy, restless kids with them. I told the receptionist I would wait outside since there was nowhere to sit. A lady offered me her seat, so I took it. Two minutes later I felt sweat on my neck. It was cooler outside than inside. I walked out and was happy to feel the breeze of the Long Island Sound caress my cheeks.
I remembered I had my Apple watch on so I started taking a stroll to get a few hundred steps in. All of a sudden I felt a really strong tug on my long, thick, curly, wild red hair. WTF? I spun around to see who had grabbed my hair. I saw a white haired lady who was about 70 hanging on to it.
“I want some of your hair. You have so much of it,” she said.
Seeing my attacker, I laughed.
“Can I have some of your hair?” she said.
Then she picked up a chunk of my hair and laid it on her head.
I replied, “I guess so. I have a lot. I can spare some.”
She seemed happy. Giggling even. Of course, I thought she was kidding. This was not the first time somebody had grabbed my hair. Once in an elevator a woman grabbed my hair behind me. She said, “I wanted to know if it was a wig.”
So this crazy lady asked me to feel her own hair.
So I did. I told her it was nice and soft.
She complained, “Even when I was young, I had thin hair.”
“Oh, too bad.” I replied.
I felt her tug at my hair again. I was getting uncomfortable. I wondered if I had been called by my gynecologist. “OK, bye now.”
I walked away quickly. I thought about my website, myhairtalking.com. People always talk about my hair so my hair has decided to talk back.
Right now it was saying, “Hey lady, buy a wig and quit grabbing my ass.” Does your hair have an ass? Well since mine has a face, I guess it’s possible.
My hair has a bit of a temper.
I walked to my car and the gyno’s receptionist was running after me.
A couple days later I was flat ironing my hair.
“Ow, that hurts,” my hair said.
My sister told me if I was gonna straighten my hair I needed to straighten the back. She thinks I should pay $50 for a blow dry every time I go out. I looked at the back of my hair in the mirror. It didn’t look right. Why was the bottom curly? Was some missing? Did Ivan, my hairstylist, cut it too short in the back?
I would have to ask him when I went in. Then it occurred to me. That crazy lady stole my hair. She must have cut it off when she yanked on it. There was like a seven inch square missing in the middle of the back. Did I let her?
My hair said, “You said, sure, she could have some. You’re an idiot. Next time ask me. You better call the cops.”
Call the cops? And say what? “An old lady stole a chunk of my hair?” It’s not like I am bald now.
And I told her it was ok, she could have it. Yep, I’m an idiot.
No more Miss Nice Guy. “Next time I say, get your hands off my hair, you lunatic.”