Subway riders refuse to be surprised; hobos, dwarfs, musicians go unnoticed. Everyone’s seen the hip-hop tumbling team before and aren’t impressed by the little kid’s back-flip. I have been yelled at, sat on, even impressed as a candidate for redemption from our Lord Jesus Christ (sometimes an angry, vengeful Lord, pissed at the Jews and the housing authority; other times smiling and all-accepting, open-armed with a Jamaican accent). But it was a shock today to see a long mess of hair – brown, presumably human, the shape and density of a sock puppet, like a filament turd – underneath someone’s feet.

By 1st Avenue it had blown half-way down the car, in and out of people’s legs, and we all took notice; I caught a woman’s eye and she laughed, eyeing the hair, though when she looked down, with the it-takes-a-village disdain we reserve for bad parents, I thought for a second that she assumed it was my hair, acting up. It was like the plastic-bag scene in American Beauty except everyone was captivated – not just some sentimental latch-key – with the animated hairball, touching people’s legs, napping on our shoes.

Dummie that I am, it wasn’t until I got to work, still deep in my hair-kite reverie, that I questioned where it came from, then thought, Oh sick.