Tales From SEPTA: That Lady With The Hair

  Oh, Jesus Christ, the hair. It was supposed to be – had been, about six weeks earlier – red. Purple goop, squeezed from a tube and smeared on unsuspecting follicles resulted in a red that, given candlelight and sufficient squinting, could probably have passed for natural. After a month and a half, the weak winter sun had stripped the pigment, leaving behind a tarnished brass like a trumpet pulled from the rubble of a house fire. Under the fluorescent bus lights, it managed to appear vaguely auburn, brown, and a weird purplish green at the same time. My cones screamed in frustration as they tried to reconcile the conflicting signals, while my rods chuckled and went back to sleep. I've never been so happy to have a book to read.