I Hate You and Your Hair.

Dear Girl Sitting in the Bus Seat in Front of Me,

My, your hair is long and luxuriant and shiny as it cascades over the back of your seat.  There is so much of it, in fact, that I cannot help brushing slightly against it as I maneuver myself and my belongings into the seat behind you.  As your living Medusa-locks detect the touch of my coarse and unworthy person, you whip your tiny head around and shoot me a glare that stops just short of turning me into stone.  After, how dare I presume to occupy the seat space I paid for all by myself, when your hair needs to play and romp there?

If I ever have the misfortune to sit behind your entitled head again, I hope I'm packing scissors.