"I rinsed it out. I don't know what happened!" Her scratchy, nasal voice echoed from behind the safety glass in front of the seat by the backdoor.
She looked really out of it. I'll call her Ginger. Her hair was a reddish color and super screwed up. Her skin was a greenish-pale. She talked slowly so as to not appear high as a kite, or maybe she was so high she had the time delay thing going on.
Ginger was cozied up next to a woman who I'll call Becky. Becky was a bus regular with her man (let's call him Eddie). Becky and Eddie have dabbled with some ugly business and take the morning Express bus downtown to get their Methadone doses. I suspect they were showing Ginger and her man how to get there.
Ginger's man, who I'm not creating a fictitious name for because he has no real part in the story, was sitting with Eddie. So, in the last forward-facing seats, you've got Ginger's man and Eddie on the left, then Becky and Ginger on the right in front of the back door.
Everyone in the group is in their mid-twenties.
Ginger had done something bad to her hair the night before. She was upset that it had knotted up, and rightfully so. It was very long - down to at least to her mid-back - and practically dreadlocked. But only in certain spots. It didn't look freshly dyed or intentionally curly, so I'm not sure what she did to it. That's okay. I don't think she knew, either.
The only saving grace is that it did look clean. None of these people appeared dirty, and I know Becky and Eddie aren't homeless. They don't smell that great, but they make the effort.
Becky maternally raked her fingers through the knotty patches, cooing to her.
"You just didn't rinse it out good enough. It'll be okay! Let's brush it out."
Oh no...no...please!
"It'll be okay!"
God, no! No, it won't be okay. Ever.
There's something really gross to me about a stranger's hair. I can imagine the dander and skin cells microscopically flying off, not to mention the stray hairs randomly becoming airborne like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Without any poetic beauty.
I actually gagged when Becky pulled a hard bristled hairbrush from her bag and started in on Ginger's mess.
They chatted and hairbrushed for the next 15 minutes like two young girls at a slumber party. Those knots were really bad. Lots of excess hair was accumulating in the brush, but Becky kept up with it. Every few seconds she'd pull out the hair and flick it on the floor. I would have to step over that hairpile to exit the bus.
I looked over a couple of times to see Ginger leaning all the way forward, face against the divider. Becky was consistent and firm in her brushing. Ginger took it like a champ, even when the brush was pulling out sections of her hair by the root. Roots that would end up on the passengers behind them, or on the bottoms of my shoes as I walked off the bus.
When the beauty session was over, Ginger and Becky split earbuds on the portable CD player the foursome had brought. Ginger rested her head on Becky's shoulder, perhaps taking a post-grooming nap. I, on the other hand, was unable to nap on that bus ride.
She looked really out of it. I'll call her Ginger. Her hair was a reddish color and super screwed up. Her skin was a greenish-pale. She talked slowly so as to not appear high as a kite, or maybe she was so high she had the time delay thing going on.
Ginger was cozied up next to a woman who I'll call Becky. Becky was a bus regular with her man (let's call him Eddie). Becky and Eddie have dabbled with some ugly business and take the morning Express bus downtown to get their Methadone doses. I suspect they were showing Ginger and her man how to get there.
Ginger's man, who I'm not creating a fictitious name for because he has no real part in the story, was sitting with Eddie. So, in the last forward-facing seats, you've got Ginger's man and Eddie on the left, then Becky and Ginger on the right in front of the back door.
Everyone in the group is in their mid-twenties.
Ginger had done something bad to her hair the night before. She was upset that it had knotted up, and rightfully so. It was very long - down to at least to her mid-back - and practically dreadlocked. But only in certain spots. It didn't look freshly dyed or intentionally curly, so I'm not sure what she did to it. That's okay. I don't think she knew, either.
The only saving grace is that it did look clean. None of these people appeared dirty, and I know Becky and Eddie aren't homeless. They don't smell that great, but they make the effort.
Becky maternally raked her fingers through the knotty patches, cooing to her.
"You just didn't rinse it out good enough. It'll be okay! Let's brush it out."
Oh no...no...please!
"It'll be okay!"
God, no! No, it won't be okay. Ever.
There's something really gross to me about a stranger's hair. I can imagine the dander and skin cells microscopically flying off, not to mention the stray hairs randomly becoming airborne like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Without any poetic beauty.
I actually gagged when Becky pulled a hard bristled hairbrush from her bag and started in on Ginger's mess.
They chatted and hairbrushed for the next 15 minutes like two young girls at a slumber party. Those knots were really bad. Lots of excess hair was accumulating in the brush, but Becky kept up with it. Every few seconds she'd pull out the hair and flick it on the floor. I would have to step over that hairpile to exit the bus.
I looked over a couple of times to see Ginger leaning all the way forward, face against the divider. Becky was consistent and firm in her brushing. Ginger took it like a champ, even when the brush was pulling out sections of her hair by the root. Roots that would end up on the passengers behind them, or on the bottoms of my shoes as I walked off the bus.
When the beauty session was over, Ginger and Becky split earbuds on the portable CD player the foursome had brought. Ginger rested her head on Becky's shoulder, perhaps taking a post-grooming nap. I, on the other hand, was unable to nap on that bus ride.
eewww
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