In this week’s travel news: Please stop patting my pony
It’a hard life.
This weekend, I flew to Denver for the one evening — just to attend a men’s grooming fashion show. Of course, some of the men were old enough to have been mothered by myself. But whatever. They are hot and I’m ripe for a mid-life crisis.
Fun times, though. I felt vaguely like a child predator — until I got to the airport this morning and was treated like a REAL predator.
We’re all about vigilant airport security, especially after the horror show at LAX last week. But my hair has no negative feelings toward anything or anyone (other than rain, humidity, cheap hair tools), and doesn’t appreciate being treated as such. Today, post body scanner, a TSA agent decided she needed to PAT MY PONY.
“I’m going to need to pat down your pony.”
Say what? If you are going to pat my pony, buy me a drink first at the very least.
The truth is, hair is a very sensitive issue for me. Unless we are in a salon or you are whispering sweet nothings in my ear, don’t touch my hair. Just don’t.
The reality is, this TSA agent may be a lovely woman. She may even have latent hair finesse. But the concept of her hands on my head made me immediately cringe. My curls are a delicate balance. What was I going to do with the rest of my travel day once she screwed them up?
When I did let her touch it — because, lets face it, she decides whether I make my flight or not — she looked at me suspiciously. “What is that? It doesn’t feel like barrettes.” Her eyes narrow.
We’ll leave out I haven’t even used the word barrette since I wore Electric Youth and made bubbles with my gum. Now, you are beginning to judge my hair.
“It’s actually fusion bonds,” I say. Her eyes seem to grow more suspicious. “You know? As in hair extensions?”
“Oh. That must be what it is.” I THINK I’D KNOW.
TSA officers: I understand you have a REALLY rough job and you are the last line of defense against very scary things. I have tremendous respect for that. But — despite what I may say at times — MY HAIR IS NOT AN OBJECT OF MASS DESTRUCTION. Except in tropical climates, but really. Seriously. Just don’t.