On the Metro yesterday, I sat in the front row by a door, reading a case on my laptop, plastic-flanged buds planted firmly in ears. The train stopped, and someone got on and someone got off. The seat next to mine was empty and then it was filled.
My seat-mate had very nice hair. Thick and lustrous. Rich, if hair can be that. Neither straight now wavy nor frizzy–none of these things. Not greasy. Not big. But down to the last strand, so totally black and opaque. I looked up just long enough to see this and then I looked back to the screen.
Minutes later, both at once, we turned to face one another. It was Sherry. Neither had noticed the other.
Sherry has amazing hair.
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