As I enter the nearly-full train, a woman wearing an odd outfit stares at me. She’s older, wearing a sort of colourful embroidered outfit that is a contrast to the Vancouver uniform of a black raincoat and jeans. She is sitting in the courtesy seats, her handbags sprawled across both seats. I push through the crowd to find a space to stand and end up standing near to her.

She starts to say something to me, and I’m already preparing to offer her a slice of pizza.

“Excuse me,” she says.

“Yes?”

“Did you comb your hair today?” she inquires.

In that second, I have an out of body moment, a flash of insight, and I see that my hair is a wavy nest of tangles emerging from under my yellow toque. I work back through my day, and in fact the old woman has made an accurate observation.