“Eight hundred dollars, guys. Look at that length. Worth every penny.”
“Are you following me?”
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.”
“Not now. I’m live.”
“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.
“Oh my God. It’s hair.”
“Seriously, why are you so obsessed with my hair?”
