“She’d better think so. I’m told it’s the only thing she wants from me.”
I tucked the gift into my purse and headed for my gate.
I was certain of two things: I would never see that girl again, and Emily’s present would reach her in one piece.
I was wrong about both.
The Hair Had Already Boarded
My seat was near the back of the plane. I reached my row at almost the same time as Brittany’s perfume.
Heavy. Sweet. French.
“Okay, guys, finally boarding! Let me show you my seat!”
An older gentleman was struggling to lift his bag into the overhead compartment. Brittany stopped one row ahead of him and spun around to show her followers the cabin.
Her hair followed half a second later.
It swept across his face, sending his glasses one way and his bag the other.
I caught the bag before it hit the floor.
“Thank you,” he said, retrieving 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 very long form. There’s a lot of surface area.”
He chuckled.
“Harold.”
“Martha.”
“Martha, I sincerely hope she isn’t sitting near us.”
Brittany dropped into the seat directly in front of mine.
Of course she did.
“Oh my God. Not you again.”
“What a small world.”
“Are you following me?”
“No, dear. Your perfume arrived first.”
Harold covered his mouth, pretending to cough.
Once the seat-belt sign went off, Brittany stood in the aisle with her phone held behind her.
“Okay, guys, you asked for the back view!”
She turned slowly, like a rotisserie.
“Eight hundred dollars, guys. Look at that length. Worth every penny.”
Then she sat down and tossed the entire length of her hair over the back of her seat.
It landed across my tray table, draped over my armrest, and spread across my forehead one strand at a time.
“Excuse me,” I said. “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 of the seat.”
“Oh my God. It’s hair.”
Harold leaned toward me.
“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.
“Seriously, why are you so obsessed with my hair?” Brittany demanded.
“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. I don’t miss the old kind.
I raised three children, buried a husband, and earned every year on my face. I wasn’t about to apologize for any of it.
“Actually, I had rather lovely hair during the Reagan administration.”
She laughed.
“See? Ancient history.”
Then the lunch cart arrived.
Lunch, Wine, and the Final Straw
The flight attendant’s badge read KELLY.
Brittany leaned back to take a selfie with her meal. Her hair swung forward and landed directly in my rice.
“Excuse me! Your hair is in my lunch.”
She didn’t even turn around.
“Then don’t eat it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Problem solved.”
“Not quite. I’d still like to eat the rest of it.”
“Lady, you’re making a huge deal out of nothing.”
Across the aisle, a teenage boy snorted. His mother pinched his arm, although her mouth was twitching too.
I pressed the call button.
Kelly arrived, took away my contaminated tray, and politely asked Brittany to keep her hair on her side.
“Fine! Whatever!”
As soon as Kelly left, Brittany turned back to her phone.
“Guys, apparently I’m not allowed to have hair on this plane.”
Then she flung it over the seat again.
“Oops.”
My replacement lunch arrived. I managed to eat in peace for exactly two minutes.
I don’t enjoy flying, so I’d ordered a small glass of white wine to calm my nerves. When the plane bumped through some turbulence, I held the glass with both hands like a sacred chalice.
Then the hair went in.
Not near the wine.
In it.
The ends swirled through the glass 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 stared at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
She lifted her 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.”
Harold leaned toward me.
“Shall I call Kelly again?”
I looked at the wine I no longer wanted to touch.
“No, Harold. I think I’ve had enough.”
I reached beneath my seat for my bag.
Brittany continued streaming.
And then I had an idea.
Not a particularly wise idea, perhaps. But a very satisfying one.
I took a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and let it flutter down beside Brittany’s feet.
“Sweetheart? I think you dropped something.”
“What?”
She looked down, folded forward, snatched up the bill, and stuffed it into her purse.
“Guess you’re not completely blind after all. Thanks.”
Of course she took it.
In Brittany’s world, anything that fell near her apparently belonged to her.
But while the rest of her bent forward, her hair remained draped over the back of her seat, its ends spread across my tray table.
I opened Emily’s present.
Inside was a tub of pink, glittery children’s slime.
I stared at it.
Then I looked at the hair.
And I made a decision I would soon have plenty of time to regret.
I took a generous handful of slime and worked it into the ends of Brittany’s extensions. Then I moved about twenty inches up the length for good measure.
I’d intended to leave a small reminder.
Harold watched me in disbelief.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
“Then keep your hair to yourself.”
“At my age, that isn’t difficult.”
I closed the tub, put it away, and sat back.
For several minutes, Brittany remained oblivious.
Then she sat upright.
The teenage boy across the aisle noticed first.
“Mom! Look!”
“Don’t stare,” his mother whispered.
“But there’s something in her hair!”
“What? What are you all looking at?”
Nobody answered. The boy had both hands clamped over his mouth.
Brittany flipped her phone around to use the screen as a mirror.
Her livestream was still running.
Eleven hundred people were about to get the same view she did.
Pink.
Glittering.
Stuck to her shoulder.
“WHAT IS THAT?!”
She poked it. Her finger came away attached to a sticky 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 stretched instead of breaking, forming a glittering pink rope between her head and her hand.
Her acrylic nails sank into it like forks into spaghetti.
When she pulled her fingers free, the slime stretched between them like melted cheese.
She wiped it on her jeans, then on the armrest, leaving sticky pink smears on both.
She shook her head.
A strand slapped against her cheek and stayed there.
For one brief, foolish moment, I felt I’d taught her a lesson.
Then I considered what might happen when we landed.
Brittany grabbed at the slime with the hand holding her phone.
The phone stuck to her palm.
“Mom, she’s making cotton candy!” the boy shouted.
His mother tried to silence him, but she was laughing too hard.
“YOU OLD WITCH! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!”
Kelly hurried down the aisle.
“Ma’am, please sit down!”
“I WANT OFF THIS PLANE!”
“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 very questionable crime committed against a head of expensive extensions.
Kelly managed to get Brittany into her seat. Her phone was still stuck to her palm, the screen facing outward and recording her increasingly desperate expression.
“Somebody turn it off! The stream! I can’t! My fingers are stuck!”
“Hold still,” I said.
I took the phone by its edges with a napkin, found the red button, and pressed it.
It took three tries.
The screen was slippery with slime.
Before it went dark, I caught a glimpse of the comments.
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, her voice suddenly smaller.
“They’re concerned about your hair.”
“Really?”
“Mostly.”
Kelly crouched beside my seat.
“Ma’am, did you do this?”
I had enjoyed my childish moment. Now it was time to behave like the seventy-three-year-old I was.
“I did. And I’ll fix it.”
Kelly looked from me to Brittany’s sticky hair.
“There’s an empty seat next to her. Please fix it quietly.”
I suspected I was in considerable trouble.
Harold passed a small bottle of olive oil over the seatback.
“Thought this might help.”
Brittany stared at me.
“Why would I let you touch my hair again?”
“Because I know how to get this out. And I promise not to put anything else in.”
She hesitated, then reluctantly turned toward me.
I tested a single strand. A little oil, a patient thumb, and the slime began to release.
“Don’t touch the clips,” she warned.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I’d raised three children. One of them had once managed to get chewing gum tangled in his hair. Compared with that, this was practically a spa treatment.
Kelly returned and bent down beside me.
“Ma’am, would you like us to request that the police meet the aircraft when we land?”
“Yes!” Brittany snapped. “Absolutely!”
Kelly looked at me.
“I understand,” I said.
But I still had no idea how much more this brazen blonde would surprise me.
The Truth Beneath the Extensions
As I carefully worked the slime loose, Brittany’s anger began to give way to embarrassment.
“My extensions cost almost everything I had left this month,” she muttered.
“Then why spend it?”
“Because I wanted to look good.”
I paused.
“You already did.”
She looked away.
“You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“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.”
She gave a small, humorless laugh.
“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.”
For the first time, she almost smiled.
I didn’t lecture her. Sometimes hands can do more good than speeches.
As I worked through another section, she glanced at my fingers.
“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 away a few years ago.”
Something in her voice softened.
I picked up three clean strands of hair.
“Well, I haven’t forgotten how.”
We worked slowly. The slime came free, strand by strand, until the extensions were clear of the sticky mess.
Her hair was oily, but otherwise intact.
I gathered it into one simple braid to keep it from spilling over the seat again.
“So it’s not ruined?” she asked.
“It’s a little oily. Wash it thoroughly, and you should be fine.”
She touched the braid carefully.
“I haven’t worn one in years.”
“It suits you.”
She looked up at me.
“You’re a pretty girl, Brittany. You don’t need eight hundred dollars of upgrades to prove it.”
Her eyes lowered.
“I’m sorry I kept throwing my hair at you,” she said. “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.”
She looked at me.
“Yeah. That was pretty mean.”
“It was.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she touched the braid again.
“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 and moved on.
I turned to Brittany.
“Why did you change your mind?”
She stared at her phone, now safely separated from the slime.
“Because I know what the video looks like.”
“What does it look like?”
She swallowed.
“Like I had it coming.”
“I’d have put it more kindly,” I said. “But I wouldn’t have put it differently.”
She gave a small laugh.
I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her the rest. Then I remembered the hundred-dollar bill.
“Sweetheart, I believe you picked up something of mine.”
“What?”
“A hundred dollars.”
Her eyes widened.
“That was YOUR money? I thought it was mine!”
“Of course you did, dear.”
I decided to let her save a little face.
She dug the bill out of her purse and handed it back.
“Apology accepted.”
I returned to my seat. Harold had kept it warm—or, at the very 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.”
I laughed.
For the first time in hours, I felt the tension leave my shoulders.
The captain announced our descent.
I thought about Emily’s present, now sitting empty in my bag. I’d have to make it up to her.
She would get a check instead. We’d go shopping together that weekend and find something even better.
As for Brittany, I hoped she would remember the flight—not just for the slime, the braid, or the video, but for the moment she realized that looking perfect and being kind were two very different things.
And I hoped I would remember it too.
Because I had learned something about myself at thirty-five thousand feet.
I was old enough to know better.
I simply hadn’t always been wise enough to act like it.
Sometimes the person who needs a lesson is the one with the longest hair.
And sometimes, if you’re not careful, you end up needing one yourself.