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Record no. 28
I saw a lady on the escalator today with pink hair. It made me think of other people I've known before with pink hair, seeing them the day after they dyed it, when the color was still volatile and had rubbed off onto their forehead.
We both walked down the street-level interchange of Zhenping Rd station, a place where you can see the pedestrians walking on the sidewalk right next to you, so close you could reach your hand out and gently stroke them if only there weren't a thick pane of glass in the way.
Those traces of hair dye on human flesh that I used to know so well... I'd imagine them as acidic chemicals, eating away at the soft, glistening skin that had absorbed them (maybe I imagined the way overdosing on SweeTarts used to make my tongue feel), but of course whenever I dyed my hair and felt it on my own skin, it never felt that way. The hair dye itself was mostly without sensation. The bleach might produce an itchy irritation, but not the thousand knives of mescaline I imagined (a description that originated in the book “Miserable Miracle”, which I read one evening at the library, prompted by the Ryuichi Sakamoto song, in hopes that it would contain other lovely metaphors, but sadly nothing else in it was particularly memorable).
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