It is a pea coat, covered in great swirling coils of what I'm told is Persian wool. I say it's pubic hair.

I picture the shaved genitals of poor college students on the make for beer money, maxed out on plasma donations for the month. Or homemakers responding to those hokey ads posted in supermarket parking lots: "Work from home! Easy! Money! EASY!" For the housewife, it'd be a job requiring two tiny investments: a proper set of clippers (available directly from the employer for $12.95) and some padded envelopes in which to send the clippings. And a husband who is into that, or not into "it" at all. I picture homeless men and women lured into the back alleys of soup kitchens and asked to drop their trousers, in some cases two or three pairs. Then"zuhhhrrrrrr," and they're off to the corner store, the cost of three Cobras in their pockets.

A man with a yellow chiffon nightie wrapped around his neck watched me try it on at the annual fur and leather sale at the Salvation Army. The buttons were good and one pocket still worked. It didn't even smell. "This is neither fur nor leather," I said to him. "But do you think it's on sale?"

It's whatever floats your boat, lady," he said.

I have since come to realize that pubic hair is powerful.

It shields me from the bullshit of, and has restored my faith in, public transportation.

Text Copyright © Jenn Kenn