I was almost at the station for the F train when I felt a heavy, damp drop splatter on my head. It’s one of those unique New York City moments where you find yourself actually praying that it was only dirty AC water. That silent prayer went through my head as I lightly touched my fingers to the afflicted area, only to find them covered with green glop. Today, I would not be fortunate enough to get hit by tainted AC run-off.
Everyone will tell you that getting pooped on by a bird is good luck. I know this to be a fact because I sent a torrent of texts to everyone in my life about the matter — something to the effect of “OMG A BIRD POOPED ON MY HEAD.” And this is what every single person thought to be a helpful response. It’s good luck!
My initial instinct was to use the non-poop covered hand to take a photo of my head for confirmation. Part of me still didn’t want to believe what I already knew. I stood on the sidewalk and took the following photo:
My first thought: That’s really bird poop. My second thought: Is my hair line receding? Or do I have a really big forehead, and I just never noticed? Either way, this wasn’t making me feel very lucky. I walked two blocks to Starbucks while worrying other people would notice the bird poop and think I didn’t know about it or that I did know about it but was okay with it. I went into one of the city’s fancier looking Starbucks and B-lined to the bathroom to stick my head under the faucet and wash the feces from my hair. It occurred to me that the bathroom sink might have been dirtier than the bird poop. I held my head under the dryer for a few rushed seconds, aware that there were already people waiting at the door.
When I went back out to the sidewalk, I stopped for a second to regroup. A trio of grungy-looking 20-something guys walked by, and as they did, the one with a guitar slung over his shoulder pointed by my feet and called out, “Excuse me, ma’am? You dropped your smile.” I spent a moment surveying the ground for my misplaced smile before his words registered, and when they did, I regret to say I let out an overly hysterical laugh, as in OH, HAHAHA! YOU GOT ME!!!! I think I was overcompensating for the shameful series of events that had just preceded.
This guy seemed pretty pleased with himself, and as I walked away, I felt mad that I let him trick me into smiling. Because it’s 2015, and women are allowed to scowl if they want, especially when they have dung in their hair and it’s not due to some consensual, kinky sex thing (Disclaimer: dung in the hair will NEVER be consensual for me, in any context). As I finally made my way into the train station, I found myself wishing I’d had the quickness to point at his feet and say something sassy right back. Something that would have seemed cool in a Molly Ringwald movie but would have gotten me jumped in real life. If there is any justice in this world, he was headed for the tree-lined war zone of Winston Churchill Square, where he would be pooped on, too. At least, I can only hope he was that lucky.