Don’t Stare

I’m on the subway with my friend John, just two old white men going to a hockey game. A young black girl/woman is standing in my line of sight, sort of striking poses in the crowded subway car.
I’m staring blankly ahead, thinking of something else. John and I get off at our stop where there’s a swirl of people wearing jerseys. Out of the crowd pops the vamping girl, aged somewhere between 14 and 20.
She speaks to me but it’s terribly loud and I have no idea what she said. I take a guess she’s asking do I know what time it is, so I say “No” and immediately realize by her face and the shouting of her friend, that she wasn’t inquiring about the time of day
“You are so mean!” her friend shouts, the vamping girl, looking upset , says something too, but again I can’t hear it. Being a trained observer, I notice for the first time the young woman has streaks of dyed white hair interspersed with streaks of black hair in a sort of candy cane pattern in her bangs, and suddenly I realize with perfect certainty that she had asked me “Do you like my hair?” and I had answered calmly with zero emotion in the negative.
John and I are now riding the crowded escalator up when a woman, older than the girls and dressed in business clothes, asks me “Do you know her?” This time I hear clearly and my answer is the same, though my mouth may betray a slight grimace, as I contemplate someone just asked me if I liked their hair and I stared impassively for a beat and then said “No.”