The Pony Tail

This woman often sits in front of me on the bus, and I ponder the back of her head through a dizzying wave of euphoria, caused by the migraine-inducing amount of hairspray that she varnishes her head with daily.

She must buy a six pack of the stuff a week, I'd say. Her ears cop a good spray also, giving them the appearance of lacquered pine.

Drowning amongst the hairspray is a dangerous assortment of bobby pins, and these, along with the spray, all are working together for the same cause- getting a little pony tail to work. The problem is, she has a short haircut, so she really has to work hard to get any amount of hair to make it through the scrunchy and out into the daylight.

I barrack hard for this pony tail, and urge it on, willing it to grow faster. For every body's sake. Week by week I note it's progress, and the gradual decline in bobby pins. Slowly it comes to resemble more its namesake and less the ragged end of an old paint brush. My heart thaws to see this.

But then tragedy.

I see the lady one day, and she's got her short, mum's haircut again. And there is the ragged tuft and the battalion of bobby pins. Giant scruchy holding four hairs. And the shiny ears. And my migraine.

Meaningless, meaningless, sayeth the Teacher.