Should You Touch Her Hair?

Martha Jones is a sixty year old woman of Irish descent. Martha does not get out much. Her hobbies include bathing her cats, flirting with the landscape servicemen, reporting her rowdy next door neighbors to the local police and watching documentaries about World War 2 (which she believes to be comedies). I guess you could say her life was not very eventful. At least, not until today.

She was standing in line at the Starbucks, waiting to order her favorite drink, a venti, half-whole milk, one quarter 1%, one quarter non-fat, extra hot, split quad shots (1 1/2 shots decaf, 2 1/2 shots regular), no foam latte, with whip, 2 packets of splenda, 1 sugar in the raw, a touch of vanilla syrup and 3 short sprinkles of cinnamon. She always loved the simple things in life.

There was a tall, bald black man standing in front of her, humming a tune unrecognizable to Martha. She assumed it was some tribal, African chant. He turned his head and smiled. Being the nosy little bastard everyone knows she is, Martha followed his gaze to see what could have possibly made him so happy. She turned to see a short, dark-skinned lady walking towards him.

Her hair. It was the wildest thing Martha had ever seen. To her, the eighth wonder of the world. How could anyone create such a messy heap on their head? It was like a thousand pieces of curling string jumping out from the side of her head, dark as charcoal and frizzy as the hair of a rabies-infested animal. The lady had a kind face but, good lord, that hair.

It was like she had been electrocuted and never cured. Like she was a (as Martha heard the youth say from time to time) a straight-up crazy person. Martha was overwhelmed by fascination and also disgust. I guess it makes sense her hair is that of a psycho poodle, she mustn't have enough money to pay for a curling iron. Because, well, you know... Martha found herself drawn closer and closer to the entropy that sat before her eyes.

She extended her arms out toward the dark messy lump in front of her and dove her hands in until she felt the lady's scalp, grabbing onto her roots. The lady spun around and screeched as Martha, unwilling to let go of the mess, yanked a fairly large chunk from the lady's head. Martha chuckled at the loose strands of hair in her hands.

"It's so disgustingly amusing!" She grinned widely, her wild eyes darted up to meet the short black lady's. She glared back at Martha, with fire in her eyes and her mouth began to expand and twist angrily. But, Martha couldn't hear a word that was being said, for she was too distracted by the way the ugly mass that swayed and jumped as the lady shook her head.

"Was it rabies?" Martha interrupted, trying her best to show her concern for the poor lady who had probably been subjected to the ugly mound her entire life.

Soon after the incident, Martha passed away. The doctors were never able to identify the exact cause of death but, as they told Martha's son, it appeared she was so full of emotion, her heart couldn't handle it and ceased to pump blood to the rest of her body, causing to collapse in the middle of a Starbucks.