Saucy Snippets: Either Use the Home Training Your Momma Gave You, Or Get “Trained” On The Train By the S Double D.

In quiet disgust I watched her brush her damp, over processed, muddy blonde, waist length hair. With each generous stroke, I could feel the one side of my upper lip curl up, up and away; prompting the left side of my growing sneer to flirt dangerously with the corner of my nose. I sneezed. Nobody said “Bless You”.

We were all on the train together. Physically our bodies occupied the same space, but it was obvious our thoughts and actions were moving to our own personal rhythms. There was the man with a missing tooth who kept smiling like a kid at Christmas who finally got the gift he had begged his parents for, all year. A group of teenagers clumped together in the back of the car traded silly adolescent insults and laughter.

There were cell phone conversations and iPod listeners, book readers and ‘snoozers’. A mother of a fussy toddler tried several techniques to quiet her child as not to make a “scene” in public. Everyone was doing their own thing - including the woman brushing her damp, over processed, muddy blonde, waist length hair. . . less than a foot away from my face. Stray hairs floated into the aisle and into the seat in front of me.

She just kept brushing and brushing and brushing. I could smell her shampoo. Her brushing frenzy was bothering me and I wanted to say something. But I refrained. After all, who am I to ‘check’ someone for grooming themselves in public? It may be somewhat tacky, but it’s certainly not illegal. Who am I, the Public Transportation Police? Am I the self appointed “Miss Manners”.

“Get over yourself, Angelique”, I mentally scolded.

I chilled and tried to focus on my own business. But no matter how hard I tried, I kept finding my eyeballs glued to this woman and her hair.

Perhaps it is because I really didn’t want to go to work today. Maybe it is because I am at the onset of menses and my hormones are doing back flips. It could have been because my stomach was empty and I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet. Or maybe I’m just neurotic and overly sensitive to my surroundings. True, I am a nosey bitch at times. Whatever the case, I kept watching and being quietly disturbed, wanting so badly to say something. I could taste the words on the tip of my tounge.

That’s when she did it.

She finally stopped brushing her fucking hair. Thank God.

Wait a minute . . .

I know she aint cleaning her hair brush on the train. Oh hell no . . .
She was using her bare hands to free the bristles of any and all of her damp, over processed, muddy blonde, waist length hair.

A matted handful of todays, yesterdays and last months hair was balled up in her palm. Now what’s she going to do with that, put it in her purse? Hold on to it until she gets off of the train? That’s when she discarded the ball of hair on the dirty floor. It was like she read my thoughts and answered my question on cue.

Now, I don’t mind a potato chip bag or two, maybe leftover pop can rolling underneath my seat – but I just know this trifling heffa aint throw a ball of hair on the floor. Am I the only person paying attention to any of this? Somebody has to clean this train. Would she want to sweep up someones left over hair? This aint no barbershop. I don’t see no red,white & blue poles around herre.

Before I could finish my thoughts the train came to a stop and the doors wooshed open. The “Hair Ball” lady stood up and made way for the exit. Her back was turned to me and she was two breaths away from fresh air. From behind she looked like “Cousin It” without his “Stunna Shades”. That’s when I said (very loudly) – “Excuse me. . .” she hurriedly looked back and I finished “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I pointed to the floor where her abandoned hairball ever so softly danced down the aisle.

I looked at her, she looked at me. I looked at the hairball again. The passengers on the train were looking at us. The doors chimed and closed. She missed her stop and was I satisfied. Neither one of us said anything else. Actually, she never said a word at all. But the look on her face was priceless.

“That’s right, it won’t kill you to stay on the train an extra 5 minutes with your nasty ass hair ball.”, I thought to myself - smiling on the inside. Either use the home training your momma gave you, or get “trained” on the train by the S Double D. For real.

The End.