Hair Pullers

28 May

It can’t be helped.

As previously predicted, public transit stories are taking over this little operation. 

Dear woman who mistook my hair for the pole,

My locks are not yours to grab.

*Slap!*

Seriously.

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

Last time I checked, the colour, shape, and texture of my hair was not that of subway pole likeness. 

Is it possible that sometime between my steps out of my front door and the entrance to the subway my hair magically morphed into a pole-type hologram?

Maybe so.

During the morning rush there’s not much to hold on to, and I admit, I have grabbed a random backpack once or twice for support.  But that’s because the damn things are massively huge and my grab for support also doubled as defensive move from my body getting  jabbed in the side chest stomach arm head leg ass random body part.

Hair, though? Really?

I mean, trust me, there are plently of things I’d like to grab onto but,  you know, I don’t.

You: Really. Enlighten me.

Me: Use your imagination, genius. Do I have to do everything?

Anyhoo, the train came to a halt, and Miss Grabby McGrabberton blindly reached out to the crowd. Rather than grabbing onto the pole or a backpack, she took a chunk of my hair, and gave a mighty yank to pull herself forward. 

Pain.

I was too exhausted to fight back. The most I could do was shoot a death glare, but since my eyes were half closed already, it wasn’t as effective as usual.  Miss Grabby, you are extremely lucky.

Needless to say, I’ve tied my hair back for the commute home.

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