The Day I Stopped Saying Hair on Fire
Just another day in paradise
There’s been a lot of rending of garments and gnashing of teeth concerning the rising crime rates in the city. It sure sells newspapers and gets plenty of clicks. But how bad is it really?
Pretty bad, actually.
On Monday morning I was heading back to my second home, NYU School of Dentistry, to have a temporary crown put back in place (as God is my witness I will have a permanent crown on my #18 tooth before the snow flies!) when I saw what appeared to be a woman on fire.
I couldn’t tell for sure because she kept ducking down behind parked cars across the street. Then she made a break for it and ran towards me. And, yes indeed, her hair was on fire. As in flames and smoke rising from the crown of her head. She was screaming — understandable — and kept swiping at the flames with the hoodie she was carrying. That was not helping.
Everyone in every direction froze. One guy set down his bottle and marveled that, sure enough, that woman’s hair was on fire.
I took a step towards her but wasn’t sure what to do. If I could get that hoodie over the flames we could smother them, but she was spinning wildly and whipping her arms around. I didn’t think I could get close enough to help. Then she sprinted…
