Pink Hair

His hair is pink.

God is it ugly.

I can't stop staring at it. I'm sitting here like an idiot, just staring at him and his pink hair. I'm sitting here in the subway, in front of everyone, staring like an idiot at him and his pink hair.

He knows I'm looking. He keeps flipping it around, like a girl; he knows it bothers me. His friend keeps looking at me, and looking away giggling. I know she sees. I don't care. I can't help it.

His hair is pink.

I don't know why I can't look away. It's just so... so pink, well, anyway. And his nails are pink, and his belt is pink, and his shoes are pink. He's like this pink god in the subway station, flipping his hair around - like a girl - and wiggling around in those tiny girl pants - like a girl - and giggling.

Like a girl.

His hair is pink.

There are these bangles on his wrist (they're pink too) and somehow over the noise of the station I can hear them jingling on his wrist. He's single, I think. Yeah. His boyfriend moved away last month, I think. He didn't seem very upset about it.

His hair was blond, before.

His hair is pink.

I don't know which I liked better. I don't know why I should care, because I shouldn't. Because it's not like I like him, or anything. Because he's such a girl, and I'm not. I'm normal.

My hair isn't pink.

His hair is pink.

It looks good on him, I think. I mean, it's kind of scary. But he pulls it off. Because he's cute.

Not like I noticed, or anything.

The train pulls in. The wind catches some girl's skirt. She screeches and shoves it down. Her hair is brown, not pink.

His hair is pink.

This isn't my train but I get in anyway. It's not that I'm following him. Why would I follow him?

He sits across from me. His friend turns on her ipod. He pulls a magazine from his backpack and starts thumbing through it. I think it's a comic book or something. I wouldn't know.

His hair is pink.

It hangs in his face and he pushes it back (he has pink nails). He taps a tune on the floor with his shoe. I'm not staring. I'm just curious. I'm pretty sure it's a comic book now - yep.

The train lurches. Some poor old lady drops her purse; a little girl drops her doll; and he drops his magazine.

I don't know why, but I'm lunging for it, and he's reaching for it. And somehow my face collides with the top of his head and I step on his hand and there's pain. There's a lot of pain.

His hair is pink.

I have a mouthful of it. I'm choking on it. It tastes like hair - I don't know what else I might have expected it to taste like. But it smells okay, I guess.

Not that I care, or anything.

And then - oh God - he's crying. He apologized first, I think (my ears were ringing, I couldn't hear) but now he's crying and I think I hurt him.

I'm about to apologize when his friend comes at me, beating me with her purse and yelling like a psycho and people are staring and my face really hurts right now because his pink head is tougher than it looks and she's hitting me with her purse and she must have bricks in it or something because God it hurts and his hair is pink and he says, "It's okay, really."

She stops. Like a trained attack dog or something. That's just WRONG.

And he looks at me with his pretty little eyes, like girl's eyes, and I'm totally not staring into them and I'm seriously not liking this (he's wearing blue eyeliner, not pink, and his eyelashes sparkle). He says to me, "What was that?"

I wasn't expecting that. Maybe an apology or maybe something really profound, I don't know, but not that. I can't say anything back. What can I say?

Oh, I know.

"Sorry, you dropped your magazine."

I'm an idiot.

"I can handle it, thanks though." God, is he wearing lip gloss?

He is SUCH a girl.

And his hair is pink. I mean... come on!

I guess I'm not really justified when I say that I kissed him. But anyone would do the same thing. And I guess it was all right, for the few seconds I managed, before his friend started beating me up again; and this time he let her do it. He looked mad, I think - or maybe so insanely happy that he couldn't make up the right facial expression?

Hope springs eternal, I guess.

Well, anyway, after I had been chased back to my original seat, the girl went back to listening to her ipod, and he went back to reading his comic book.

But I think he kept looking up at me, and not in a bad way, because he was smiling.

I could be imagining it. I probably am.

I can't see that well through his pink hair.

I get off on the first possible stop, not looking back. I go home, do my homework, eat dinner, and get ready for bed. The mundane.

But as I paw through my pockets for loose change (since I forget to a lot of the time), I find a piece of paper I didn't put in there.

There's pink ink on it.

I guess he must really like pink.

What a girl.

But I'm smiling.