There is a G-d

I opened my favorite morning newspaper, the New York Post - ie brain candy for sleepy minds- and in their Pulse section was a story about Holla Back.

Fucking brilliant. I wish I'd thought of it myself. What better way to get ward off the lecher cabbies and reduce the possibility of a repeat offense of this predatory type of behavior. Frustrated women, including me who posted about this problem last summer, are rejoicing.

It's ironic as well, because just this morning a guy started playing with my hair on the train. I felt someone pulling on a strand of my hair and assumed it had been caught in my bag. But I still felt the tugging sensation after I had adjusted my bag, and there he was, twirling a strand of my hair in his fingers. When I made eye contact with him and gave him a "what are you doing?" look, he said: "I love your curls." Because this is New York City, I couldn't decide if he was harassing me or if he was a hairdresser.

All around, I wanted to say, "Drop the curls and put your hands up in the air. That's right, step away from the curls." When I was in grade school, my best friend then, David Berkowitz (yes, that was his name, he was born before the Summer of Sam), constantly threatened to cut off my hair when I wasn't looking. Thus, I developed a complex about my hair. Don't touch the curls with your dirty hands that have been G-d knows where. I just wanted to run back home and take another shower.

Love-your-curls Dude must have figured his line wasn't going to get him anywhere, because he stopped touching my hair and I moved away. Thankfully, some of the other passengers had the insight to make room for me to do so. And then after I had transferred trains, I read the article about Holla Back.

I know I will continue to be subjected to leering and jeering by random strangers, so it's a small satisfaction to know that in some small way, I can fight back. But contrary to the Holla Back's tagline, next time I will slap them if they even so much as lay a finger on me.