I had a name for them in college.

I called them Flippers, Flingers and Swishers.

You know, the women whose hair is a potentially lethal weapon?

I was at the DMV recently to get a copy of my driving record when I realized I also needed to renew my license. A cheerful lady gave me the necessary paperwork and sent me on the kind of walkabout that's necessary to get anything done in that particular bureaucracy. Fill out this; stand over there; get your picture taken...

And then she dropped the bomb: "You'll have to take the test."

I felt a moment of panic.

"Test? Test? I can't take the test. I haven't studied. I'm not ready," I said.

And then I laughed and added, "That was a pretty stupid thing to say, considering I drove over here, right?"

Failing to pass a test on my knowledge of the rules of the road meant I deserved to walk home, for all our sakes.

But I digress.

Anyway, I went into a little room set aside for testing. Only one seat was available, so I slipped into it and began reading over the questions.

Suddenly I was struck in the face with the equivalent of a horse's tail.

I turned to my right in time to see a young blonde gathering her locks for another shot.

Running her fingers through her hair, she gathered strands in her fist, wound up her neck, flexed right and ----- thwack. Pop goes the Agnes.

The amazing thing is she never looked to see if anyone was in firing distance before swatting both me and the guy on her other side like meaningless flies.

I finished before she did, passed with only one wrong answer (because prayer works) and I went on my way.

A few days later, I was sitting in a meeting when a couple of women began primping in tandem. Flip, fling, swish, they raised their arms slowly, both hands wrapped with their own hair, and ----ka-pow!

I leaned back in time to avoid the double barreled assault, tempted to say, "ha-ha, you missed me."

But these people are apparently either oblivious to the fact that they are a nuisance or they just don't care.

Like I said, I first gave them a name in college where I sat behind one in the computer lab. Day after day, she performed her grooming ritual or whatever you want to call it. Anyway, it always ended up the same ---- with my papers and pens scattered on the floor where her human dustmop had swished them.

One day I saw it coming at me and caught a clump in my hand. Her whiplash motion was cut short as she found herself trapped. The hunter had been captured by the game, so to speak.

I must caution you here: Don't try this at home. We were not strangers or enemies, but classmates who occasionally worked on projects together or had coffee and studied in the cafeteria.

So she was surprised, but not angry or afraid. She turned as far as she could to see what was happening. I leaned close to her, smiled a phony smile and said something like, "I suggest you find a way to restrain this weapon. Next time it assaults me I will defend myself. Expect me to be carrying a pair of shears in the future."

The next day, she sat down, turned to me and smiled, gathered up the dark curly mass of her hair and produced a hair clip with a Houdini-like flourish. She said, "Ta-dah," and clamped it in place, smiled and went to work.

It never ceases to amaze me how some women repeatedly toy with their hair in public. They're like monkeys grooming for ticks.

Well, that's their business. But the rest of us have a right to return home with the two good eyes we left with. So if you're one of those people who can't leave well enough alone, please remember ---- your right to flip your hair should be governed by the proximity of our faces.

Contact staff writer Agnes Diggs at (760) 740-3511 or adiggs@nctimes.com.