“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.
“I already feel old.”
“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.
“Is that a compliment?”
“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.”
The slime was gone.
“It suits you. You’re a pretty girl, Brittany. You don’t need eight hundred dollars of upgrades to prove it.”
