“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 stuck to her own head and fury in her eyes.
She was pointing at me with the other one.
Every head in the cabin turned my way.
Two hours earlier, I couldn’t have imagined we would end up here.
I was seventy-three and flying to my granddaughter’s graduation. Before boarding, I stood in a duty-free line with a little present for her.
The line was crawling. The reason stood right in front of me.
She was maybe twenty-eight, with blonde hair down to the backs of her knees and a phone held at arm’s length.
The case said BRITTANY in rhinestones, in case she forgot.
“Okay, guys, help me choose. This one or this one?”
She held two perfume bottles up to the screen.
“Ma’am, should I ring those up?” the cashier asked.
“One sec, my chat is deciding.”
Honey, at my age, “one second” better come with a chair.
“I know! They’re both gorgeous. Maybe I’ll just take both.”
The cashier read out the total. She blinked at it for half a second.
Then she smiled at the phone.
“Beauty is an investment, right?”
She paid. Then she grabbed a tester and sprayed her neck, her wrists, and, for good measure, her hair.
The cloud reached me a moment later. I coughed.
“Excuse me, dear. That’s quite a strong perfume.”
“It’s French.”
“I don’t think the French intended us to taste it.”
The cashier made a noise like a kettle.
“Guys, apparently my perfume is offending people now,” she told her screen.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder. It hit me squarely across the face.
“Careful, sweetheart. Your hair just hit me.”
“Then don’t stand so close.”
“I’m standing in line.”
“Personal space is still a thing.”
I stepped back. She whipped her head around again.
This time, it caught my hand.
“Does it always need that much room?”
“What?”
“Your hair.”
“It’s called volume.”
“I see. I thought Cousin Itt had finally found a conditioner.”
The cashier lost it completely.
“Whatever. Some people just can’t appreciate good hair.”
At the door, she turned.
“Maybe you’re just jealous.”
“Of the perfume? Not particularly.”
She left. The smell stayed behind like a guest who hadn’t noticed the party was over.
The cashier scanned my present.
“Lucky granddaughter.”
“She’d better think so. I’m told it’s the only thing she wants from me.”
I zipped it into my purse and went to find my gate.
I was certain of two things. I’d never see that girl again, and the present would reach Emily in one piece.
I was wrong about both.
My row was near the back. I got there at the same time as the perfume.
Heavy. Sweet. French.
“Okay, guys, finally boarding! Let me show you my seat!”
An older gentleman in my row was heaving his bag toward the overhead bin.
The blonde stopped one row ahead and spun around to show her followers the cabin.
Her hair spun with her, half a second late.
It caught him across the face. His glasses went one way. His bag went the other.
I caught the bag.
“Thank you.” He retrieved his glasses. “I believe I’ve just been assaulted by a shampoo commercial.”
“I believe you have.”
“Should I file a report?”
“It would be a long form. There’s a lot of surface area.”
He smiled.
“Harold.”
“Martha.”
“Martha, I do hope she isn’t sitting near us.”
She sat down directly in front of my seat.
Of course she did.
“Oh my God. Not you again.”
“What a small world.”
“Are you following me?”
“No, dear. Your perfume arrived first.”
When the seat belt sign went off, she stood up in the aisle with the phone held behind her.
“Okay, guys, you asked for the back view.”
“Eight hundred dollars, guys. Look at that length. Worth every penny.”
She turned slowly, like a rotisserie.
Then she sat down and flung the whole thing back over her seat like laundry on a line.
It landed on my tray table, down my armrest, and, one strand at a time, across my forehead.
“Excuse me. Would you mind moving your hair?”
“Not now. I’m live.”
“I’m sure your viewers are impressed. I’d be more impressed if it stayed on your side.”
“Oh my God. It’s hair.”
Harold leaned in.
“Eight hundred dollars. I paid less for my first car.”
“Did it come with a steering wheel?”
“Eventually.”
I laughed. It helped, for a while.
But an hour later, I was ready to launch myself into orbit from sheer rage.
“Seriously, why are you so obsessed with my hair?”
“I’m not obsessed. I’m simply sitting behind it.”
“You’re jealous. When was the last time you had hair like this? Fifty years ago?”
My hair is short and silver now, and I don’t miss the old kind.
I raised three children and buried a husband, and I’m not apologizing for a single year.
“Actually, I had rather lovely hair during the Reagan administration.”
She laughed.
“See? Ancient history.”
Another toss sent her extensions across my face and toward my coffee. I pushed them away from the cup.
She turned around.
Long acrylic nails. Glossy, overfilled lips. Gum snapping between her teeth.
“Could you please keep your hair in front of you?”
“It’s hair.”
“It’s in my drink.”
She rolled her eyes, tossed it forward, and went back to her phone.
Then the lunch cart arrived.
The flight attendant’s badge said Kelly.
Within five minutes, Brittany flung her hair back to take a selfie with her tray, and the ends went straight into my rice.
“Ma’am, please.”
She spun around.
“Don’t touch my hair.”
“It’s touching my food.”
“Then move your food.”
A woman across the aisle muttered, “Seriously?”
Brittany blew a bubble.
“Why is everyone so dramatic?”
“Excuse me! Your hair is in my lunch.”
She turned away again.
“Then don’t eat it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Problem solved.”
“Not quite. I would like to eat the rest of it.”
“Lady, you’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have my fork up there, would you? It seems to have disappeared.”
Across the aisle, a teenage boy snorted. His mother pinched him. Her own mouth was twitching.
I pressed the call button. Kelly took away my tray and asked Brittany to keep her hair on her side.
“Fine! Whatever!”
Kelly left. Brittany turned to her phone.
“Guys, apparently I’m not allowed to have hair on this plane.”
Then she looked back at me, smiled, and flung it straight back.
It hit my cheek.
“Oops.”
My replacement lunch arrived.
I ate in peace for exactly two minutes.
I don’t like flying, and I’d ordered a small glass of white wine for my nerves. When the plane shook, I held it with both hands like a chalice.
Then the hair went in.
Not near it. In. The ends swirled in my wine like a paintbrush in a jar.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“What now?!”
“Your hair is in my wine.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking at your age anyway.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She lifted the phone over the seat.
“Guys, she’s giving me the angry grandma look!”
“Would you please take that thing out of my face?”
“Relax. I have eleven hundred people watching. You’re, like, a sidebar.”
“Shall I call Kelly again?” Harold asked quietly.
I looked at the wine I no longer wanted to touch.
“No, Harold. I think I’ve had enough.”
I reached under the seat for my bag.
While Brittany was looking at her phone, I took a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and let it flutter down beside her feet.
“Sweetheart?”
She glanced back.
“I think something fell out of your bag.”
“What?”
She looked down. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh!”
She folded forward, snatched up the bill, and stuffed it in her purse.
She never asked if it was hers.
Brittany kept streaming.
“Guess you’re not completely blind after all. Thanks.”
“Of course.”
Of course she took it. In her world, everything that fell near her was hers.
But the hair was long enough to be in two places at once. The rest of her went down.
The hair stayed draped over her seat, the ends heaped on my tray.
I opened the present.
I took a generous handful. I worked it into the ends, then twenty inches up the length for good measure.
I’d meant to leave a small reminder.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Harold murmured.
“Then keep your hair to yourself.”
“At my age, that’s not difficult.”
I sat back.
Brittany straightened.
The boy across the aisle saw it first and suddenly snorted. His mother elbowed him, but she was trying not to laugh too.
Then another passenger noticed.
And another.
Brittany frowned.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
“Mom! Look!” the boy said.
“Don’t stare.”
“But there’s something in her hair!”
“What? What are you all looking at?”
The boy had both hands over his mouth.
She turned her phone around and opened the front camera to use it as a mirror.
The stream was still live, so eleven hundred people got the view with her.
Pink. Glittering. Sitting on her shoulder.
“WHAT IS THAT?!”
Her scream made half the cabin jump.
She poked it. Her finger came away connected to it by a thread.
“IS THAT SLIME?!”
“Slime, sweetheart. It was meant for my granddaughter. You’re an early adopter.”
“YOU PUT SLIME IN MY HAIR?!”
“Your hair was in my lunch. I thought we were exchanging things.”
“THESE EXTENSIONS COST EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS!”
“Yes, dear. You’ve mentioned that. I’d keep my hands away from it.”
“DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”
The slime didn’t tear. It stretched, a long glittering rope from her head to her hand.
Her acrylic nails sank in like forks into spaghetti.
When she pulled free, pink slime stretched between her fingers like melted cheese.
She wiped it on her jeans, then the armrest, leaving some on both.
She shook her head, and a sticky strand slapped her cheek and stayed there.
I felt like I’d taught her a lesson, but I had no idea what it might cost me once we landed.
She grabbed at it with the hand holding the phone. The phone stuck to her palm.
“Mom, she’s making cotton candy!” the boy shouted.
His mother tried to shush him. She was laughing too hard.
“YOU OLD WITCH! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!”
Brittany twisted toward me, grabbing at her extensions.
“What did you do to me?!”
“YOU TURNED MY EIGHT-HUNDRED-DOLLAR HAIR INTO A KINDERGARTEN CRAFT PROJECT!”
Kelly came hurrying down the aisle.
“Ma’am, please sit down!”
“I WANT OFF THIS PLANE!”
The attendant blinked.
“Ma’am, we’re at thirty-five thousand feet.”
“I DON’T CARE! LOOK AT MY HAIR!”
And that brings us back to the screaming. One woman, one cabin, and my crime on her head.
Kelly got her into her seat. The phone was still glued to Brittany’s palm, screen out, pointed at her own face.
“Somebody turn it off! The stream! I can’t, my fingers are stuck!”
“Hold still.”
I took the phone by its edges with a napkin, found the red button, and pressed it. It took three tries.
The screen was slimy.
I couldn’t help seeing the last screenful before it went dark.
LMAOOO
somebody get her some oil
why is nobody helping her
bro she literally threw her hair in grandma’s lunch for an HOUR
grandma is my hero ngl
“What are they saying?” Brittany asked.
“They’re worried about your hair.”
“Really?”
“Mostly.”
Kelly crouched beside my seat.
“Ma’am. Did you do this?”
I’d had my childish fun. Now it was time to act my age.
“I did. I’ll fix it.”
“There’s an empty seat next to her. Please fix it quietly.”
Big trouble was probably waiting for me.
Harold passed my salad over the seat back and held out the little bottle of olive oil.
“Why would I let you touch my hair again?” Brittany said.
“Because I know how to get this out. And I promise not to put any more in.”
I tested one strand. A drop of oil, a patient thumb, and the slime let go.
“Don’t touch the clips,” Brittany said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I raised three children, and one of them had a gum problem. This was easier than gum.
Kelly came back, bending low.
“Ma’am, would you like the police to meet the aircraft when we land?”
“Yes!” Brittany snapped. “Absolutely!”
Kelly looked at me.
“I understand,” I said.
But I didn’t expect that this brazen blonde would manage to surprise me even more.
“I’ll need to document what happened,” Kelly said. “I’ll check back with you before we land.”
She left.
“My extensions cost almost everything I had left this month,” Brittany said.
“Then why spend it?”
“Because I wanted to look good.”
“You already did.”
“You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“Everyone online looks perfect. Perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect everything.”
“And you think buying all that will make you happy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That’s an expensive maybe.”
“I couldn’t afford the perfume either. I’m twenty-eight. I already feel old.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You’re talking to a seventy-three-year-old.”
“I know.”
“And I’m having a perfectly lovely time. Apart from this flight.”
She almost smiled.
I didn’t lecture her. Hands are better than speeches.
“Your hands look like my grandma’s.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yeah. She used to braid my hair when I was little.”
“Does she still?”
“No. She passed a few years ago.”
I picked up three clean strands.
“Well, I haven’t forgotten how.”
The slime was gone. What was left was a very oily, perfectly intact head of extensions.
I braided it into one plain braid, so nothing could catch on the seat again.
“So it’s not ruined?”
“It’s a salad. Wash it twice and you’ll be fine.”
“I haven’t worn a braid in years.”
“It suits you. You’re a pretty girl, Brittany. You don’t need eight hundred dollars of upgrades to prove it.”
“I’m sorry I kept throwing my hair at you. And for what I said about your age.”
“That was rather rude.”
“I know.”
I tied off the braid.
“And I’m sorry I put slime in your hair.”
“Yeah. That was pretty mean.”
“It was.”
Brittany looked at her braid.
“Thank you for fixing it, though.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Kelly returned a few minutes later.
“Ma’am, about the police. Do you still want us to request that they meet the aircraft?”
Brittany hesitated.
“No. I changed my mind.”
Kelly nodded.
After she left, I turned to Brittany.
“Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I know what the video looks like,” she mumbled.
“What does it look like?”
“Like I had it coming.”
“I’d have put it more kindly. But I wouldn’t have put it differently.”
She gave a small laugh.
I didn’t know whether I should tell her the rest.
“And, sweetheart, I believe you picked up something of mine.”
“What?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“That was YOUR money? I thought it was mine!”
“Of course you did, dear.”
I pretended to believe her. It was the kindest thing I could do for both of us.
She dug out the bill and handed it over.
“Apology accepted.”
I went back to my seat. Harold had kept it warm, or at least unoccupied.
“Would you like to get coffee when we land?” he asked.
“Are you always this forward with women on airplanes?”
“Only the dangerous ones.”
The captain announced our descent.
Emily would get a check instead. We’d buy a replacement together that weekend.
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