One way I kill time on my monotonous commutes across municipal Tokyo is to scout out the hairpieces in the strap-hanger set.
It's sort of like bird-watching. Be patient, observant and sooner or later your reward will come. Like maybe a genuine, blue-suited rug-wearer, perhaps even with a "Stainmaster" ® tag dangling from his hairline.
But these days my hair targets have changed. "Why, look at that old geezer over there?" I might tell myself. Look at how he whips his soccer-squad of hair follicles into an attractive front line. How does he do that? With mousse? Mirrors? Superglue? Should I ask?