“YOU TURNED MY EIGHT-HUNDRED-DOLLAR HAIR INTO A KINDERGARTEN CRAFT PROJECT!”
Thirty-five thousand feet up, a young woman stood in the aisle with one hand glued to her own head and pure rage written all over her face.
She was pointing at me with the other hand.
Every head in the cabin snapped around in my direction.
Yet just two hours prior, nothing on Earth would have suggested it would come to this.
Two hours earlier, I was waiting in a slow-moving duty-free queue to pick up a small surprise for my granddaughter.
The line wasn’t budging, and the source of the delay stood right ahead of me.
She looked to be about twenty-eight, featuring blonde tresses cascading past her knees and a smartphone held at arm’s length.
Her phone case bore the name BRITTANY spelled out in rhinestones, just in case she happened to forget.
“All right, guys, help me out here. This one or this one?”
She lifted two perfume bottles toward the camera.
“Ma’am, are we checking these out?” the clerk inquired.
“One sec, my chat is still voting.”
Honey, at my time of life, “one second” ought to come equipped with a seating option.
“I know, right? They’re both stunning. You know what, I’ll just grab both.”
The cashier recited the total. The girl stared at the register display for a brief second.
Then she flashed a bright smile at her screen.
“Self-care is an investment, right?”
She paid, snatched a nearby tester bottle, and spritzed her neck, her wrists, and—for good measure—her cascading locks.
The fragrant cloud rolled over me an instant later. I let out a cough.
“Pardon me, dear. That scent is rather potent.”
“It’s French.”
“I sincerely doubt the perfumers intended for us to ingest it.”
The cashier let out a sound resembling a boiling kettle.
“Guys, apparently my fragrance is upsetting people now,” she announced to her stream.
She tossed her mane over her shoulder. It caught me squarely across the bridge of the nose.
“Watch it, sweetheart. Your hair just smacked me.”
“Then maybe don’t stand so close.”
“I am standing in a queue.”
“Personal space is still a thing, you know.”
I retreated a step. She whipped her head around yet again.
This time, it clipped my hand.
“Does it genuinely require that much clearance?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hair.”
“It’s called volume.”
“Ah, I see. I figured Cousin Itt had finally tracked down a decent conditioner.”
The cashier completely lost her composure.
“Whatever. Some folks just don’t appreciate luxury locks.” Near the exit, she glanced back. “Perhaps you’re simply envious.”
“Of the fragrance? Not particularly.”
She departed. The aroma lingered behind like an uninvited guest who missed the cue that the gathering was over.
The clerk scanned my gift. “A very lucky granddaughter.”
“She better think so. I’m told it’s the sole item on her wish list.”
I zipped it into my handbag and set off to locate my boarding gate.
I felt certain of two things. I would never lay eyes on that girl again, and the present would arrive safely in Emily’s hands.
I turned out to be mistaken on both counts.
My row was situated near the tail of the plane. I arrived just as the perfume made its entrance.
Heavy. Sugary. French.
“Okay, guys, final boarding call! Let me give you a peek at my seating spot!”
An elderly gentleman in my row was hoisting his luggage toward the overhead compartment.
The blonde halted a row ahead and spun around to give her followers a view of the cabin.
Her locks whipped around with her, lagging half a second behind.
It caught him right across the face. His spectacles flew one way; his bag went the other.
I managed to catch the luggage in mid-air.
“Much obliged.” He retrieved his glasses. “I’m under the impression I’ve just been assaulted by a shampoo ad.”
“I’d say your impression is correct.”
“Do you suppose I ought to log a formal complaint?”
“It would be quite an extensive paperwork process. There’s a tremendous amount of surface area.”
He offered a warm smile. “Harold.”
“Martha.”
“Martha, I sincerely pray she isn’t seated anywhere near us.”
She dropped into the seat immediately in front of mine.
Naturally she did.
“Oh, good grief. Not you again.”
“What a remarkably small world.”
“Are you tailing me?”
“No, dear. Your perfume preceded you.”
As soon as the fasten-seatbelt sign chimed off, she popped up in the aisle with her phone positioned behind her.
“Alright, guys, you asked for the rear angle view.”
“Eight hundred dollars, everyone. Look at that length. Every penny well spent.”
She pivoted in a circle, moving like a rotisserie chicken.
Then she took her seat and flung the entire length backward over her headrest like wet laundry on a clothesline.
It draped across my meal tray, over my armrest, and—strand by individual strand—across my forehead.
“Pardon me. Would you mind shifting your hair?”
“Not right now. I’m broadcasting live.”
“I’m sure your audience is fascinated. Though I’d be far more impressed if it remained on your side of the boundary.”
“Oh, please. It’s just hair.”
Harold leaned over. “Eight hundred dollars. I paid less for my very first automobile.”
“Did it come equipped with a steering wheel?”
“Eventually, yes.”
I let out a chuckle. It provided a temporary distraction.
Yet an hour later, I was ready to launch myself into the stratosphere out of sheer exasperation.
“Honestly, why are you so fixated on my hair?”
“I’m not fixated. I’m merely occupying the space directly behind it.”
“You’re just jealous. When was the last time you sported locks like these? Half a century ago?”
My hair is short and silver these days, and I harbor zero regrets about leaving the old style behind.
I raised three children and laid a husband to rest, and I refuse to apologize for a single year of it.
“As it happens, I maintained rather splendid hair throughout the Reagan administration.”
She laughed aloud. “See? Ancient history.”
At that moment, the lunch trolley rolled down the aisle.
The flight attendant’s name tag read Kelly.
Brittany threw her mane back to snap a selfie alongside her meal tray, and the ends dipped straight into my rice bowl.
“Excuse me! Your hair is sitting in my lunch.”
She didn’t even bother to turn around. “Then skip eating it.”
“I wasn’t intending to.”
“Problem solved, then.”
“Not entirely. I would rather prefer to consume the remainder of my meal.”
“Lady, you’re creating an immense drama over nothing.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have my fork tucked up in there, would you? It seems to have vanished.”
Across the aisle, a teenage boy let out a snort. His mother gave him a sharp pinch. Even her own mouth was twitching.
I pressed the overhead service chime. Kelly promptly removed my tray and asked Brittany to keep her hair confined to her own space.
“Fine! Whatever!”
Kelly walked away. Brittany immediately turned back to her device.
“Guys, apparently I’m barred from having hair on this particular flight.”
Then she tossed it straight backward once more.
“Oops.”
My replacement lunch was served.
I managed to eat in absolute tranquility for precisely two minutes.
I am not particularly fond of flying, so I had ordered a modest glass of white wine to steady my nerves. When the aircraft hit some turbulence, I gripped the stem with both hands like a sacred chalice.
Right on cue, the hair descended.
Not near it—directly into it. The tips swirled around in my wine like a paintbrush dipped in a jar of water.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“What is it now?!”
“Your hair is submerged in my wine.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be partaking at your age anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She elevated her phone high above the seatback.
“Guys, she’s giving me the furious grandma glare!”
“Would you kindly remove that apparatus from my line of sight?”
“Relax. I have eleven hundred viewers tuned in. You’re basically just background ambiance.”
“Shall I summon Kelly once more?” Harold inquired quietly.
I stared down at the wine I no longer had any desire to touch.
“No, Harold. I believe I’ve reached my limit.”
I reached down toward the floor for my tote bag.
Brittany continued her live broadcast uninterrupted.
I drew a hundred-dollar bill from my billfold and let it drift downward to land near Brittany’s shoes.
“Sweetheart? I think you dropped something.”
“What?”
She glanced downward, bent forward, snatched the banknote off the floor, and stuffed it directly into her handbag.
“Guess your eyesight isn’t completely shot after all. Appreciate it.”
Naturally, she pocketed it. In her universe, anything that landed near her vicinity automatically belonged to her.
Yet her hair remained long enough to occupy two zones simultaneously. The rest of her body had shifted down, but the tresses stayed draped over the seatback, the tips piled upon my meal tray.
I unzipped the gift package.
I scooped up a generous dollop. I worked it thoroughly into the ends, continuing twenty inches up the length for good measure.
My original intention had been to leave behind a subtle reminder.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Harold whispered under his breath.
“Then I suggest keeping your hair to yourself.”
“At my stage of life, that’s hardly a challenge.”
Brittany shifted upright.
The young boy across the aisle noticed first.
“Mom! Look!”
“Hush, don’t stare.”
“But there’s something strange caught in her hair!”
“What? What is everyone looking at?”
Silence answered her. The boy had both hands clapped firmly over his mouth.
She flipped her phone around to utilize the screen as a makeshift mirror.
The stream was still active, meaning eleven hundred individuals caught the spectacle right along with her.
Pink. Shimmering. Clinging tightly to her shoulder.
“WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT?!”
She gave it a poke. Her fingertip came away linked to it by a gooey string.
“IS THAT SLIME?!”
“Slime, dear. It was originally intended for my granddaughter. You’re simply an early adopter.”
“YOU PUT SLIME IN MY HAIR?!”
“Your hair was resting inside my lunch. I figured we were engaging in a trade.”
“THESE EXTENSIONS COST EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS!”
“Yes, darling. You’ve mentioned that fact repeatedly. I’d advise keeping your hands away from it.”
“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”
The slime refused to snap cleanly. Instead, it stretched outward—a long, glittering filament connecting her scalp to her hand.
Her acrylic fingernails sank into it like forks digging into spaghetti.
When she yanked her hand free, the pink goo stretched between her fingers like melted mozzarella.
She wiped the residue onto her jeans, followed by the armrest, leaving smears on both surfaces.
She shook her head vigorously, causing a sticky strand to slap against her cheek and adhere firmly in place.
I felt as though I had imparted a valuable lesson, though I had no clue what kind of repercussions awaited me once we touched down.
She grabbed frantically at it using the hand still clutching her phone. The device glued itself straight to her palm.
“Mom, she’s practically spinning cotton candy!” the boy blurted out.
His mother attempted to quiet him, though her own mouth was trembling with suppressed laughter.
“YOU ANCIENT WORM! LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”
Kelly came rushing briskly down the aisle.
“Ma’am, please take your seat!”
“I WANT OFF THIS AIRCRAFT!”
“Ma’am, we are currently cruising at thirty-five thousand feet.”
“I COULDN’T CARE LESS! JUST LOOK AT MY HAIR!”
Which brings us right back to the screaming match. One exasperated woman, one crowded cabin, and my handiwork proudly displayed on her head.
Kelly guided her back into her seat. The phone remained firmly glued to Brittany’s palm, screen facing outward and broadcasting her own face.
“Somebody shut it off! The stream! I can’t do it, my fingers are completely stuck!”
“Keep still for a moment.”
I grasped the phone by its edges using a paper napkin, located the power button, and pressed it. It required three attempts.
The entire screen was slick with slime.
I couldn’t help catching a glimpse of the final chat comments before the display went dark.
LMAOOOsomebody toss her some cooking oilwhy is nobody coming to her rescuebro she literally dumped her hair in grandma’s lunch for an HOURgrandma is my absolute hero ngl
“What are they saying about me?” Brittany demanded.
“They appear concerned about the state of your hair.”
“Really?”
“For the most part.”
Kelly crouched down beside my row. “Ma’am. Did you orchestrate this?”
I had indulged in my petty fun. Now it was time to behave my age.
“I did. And I intend to fix it.”
“There’s a vacant seat directly beside her. Please resolve this quietly.”
Harold slid my salad across the seatback and extended a tiny vial of olive oil.
“Why on earth would I let you touch my hair again?” Brittany snapped.
“Because I happen to know how to extract this substance. And I give you my word I won’t add any more.”
I tested a single strand. A drop of oil, some patient thumbwork, and the slime finally released its grip.
“Just don’t touch the clips,” Brittany warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I raised three children, and one of them once had a major chewing gum incident. This proved far simpler than gum.
Kelly returned a moment later, leaning in close.
“Ma’am, regarding the authorities. Would you still like us to have police meet the aircraft upon arrival?”
“Yes!” Brittany hissed. “Without a doubt!”
Kelly looked over at me.
“I understand,” I replied.
“I’ll need to log an official report of the incident,” Kelly noted. “I’ll check back in with you prior to landing.”
She stepped away.
“My hair extensions ate up almost every penny I had left for the month.”
“Then why spend it in the first place?”
“Because I wanted to look presentable.”
“You already did.”
“You simply don’t understand.”
“Try explaining it to me.”
“Everyone on the internet looks flawless. Flawless hair, flawless skin, flawless everything.”Koh
“And you figured purchasing all those extras would guarantee happiness?”
“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps.”
“That’s an awfully expensive perhaps.”
“I couldn’t even really afford the designer perfume either. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I already feel ancient.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re speaking to a seventy-three-year-old woman.”
“I know.”
“And I’m having a thoroughly delightful time. Aside from this particular flight.”
A tiny ghost of a smile appeared on her face.
I refrained from lecturing her. Gentle actions speak louder than speeches anyway.
“Your hands resemble my grandmother’s hands.”
“Is that intended as a compliment?”
“Yeah. She used to weave my hair into braids when I was a little girl.”
“Does she still do so?”
“No. She passed away a few years back.”
I gathered three clean strands of hair.
“Well, I certainly haven’t forgotten the technique.”
The slime was completely gone. What remained was a heavily oiled, perfectly intact set of hair extensions.
I wove them into a single, neat braid so nothing more could catch on the seating structure.
“So it isn’t totally ruined?”
“It’s essentially a salad dressing situation. Wash it out twice and you’ll be right as rain.”
“I haven’t worn a single braid in years.”
“It suits you well. You’re an attractive young woman, Brittany. You don’t require eight hundred dollars worth of upgrades to prove it.”
“I’m sorry for repeatedly throwing my hair at you. And for my remarks regarding your age.”
“That part was rather impolite.”
“I know it was.”
I secured the end of the braid with a band.
“And I’m sorry for depositing slime in your hair.”
“Yeah. That was pretty low.”
“It truly was.”
Brittany stared down at her new braid.
“Thanks for straightening it out for me, though.”
“You are very welcome, sweetheart.”
Kelly reappeared a few minutes later.
“Ma’am, concerning the police presence. Do you still wish for us to request that officers meet the plane?”
Brittany hesitated for a beat.
“No. I’ve changed my mind.”
Kelly gave a brief nod.
Once she walked away, I turned back to Brittany.
“What made you change your mind?”
“Because I know how that video actually looks to outsiders,” she mumbled.
“And how does it look?”
“Like I completely had it coming.”
“I would have phrased it more gently. But I wouldn’t have disagreed.”
She let out a soft, genuine laugh.
“And, sweetheart, I believe you currently have possession of an item belonging to me.”
“What item?”
“A hundred-dollar bill.”
“That was YOUR money? I honestly thought it was mine!”
“Of course you did, dear.”
I chose to pretend to believe her. It was the kindest course of action for both of us.
She dug the banknote out of her pocket and handed it across the aisle.
“Apology accepted.”
I returned to my own seat. Harold had kept it warm—or at least unoccupied.
“Would you care to grab a cup of coffee once we touch down?” he asked.
“Are you always this forward with female passengers on commercial flights?”
“Only the dangerous ones.”
The captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing our final descent.
Emily would simply receive a financial check instead. We could go shop for a replacement gift together over the weekend.
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