I had also ordered a small glass of white wine because I have never particularly enjoyed flying. Whenever turbulence begins, I find myself holding my glass with both hands as if it were a sacred object.
The aircraft shook gently.
I steadied the glass.
And then, as though the universe had decided I had not suffered enough, a long blonde strand descended from above and landed directly in my wine.
Not beside it.
Not near it.
Inside it.
The hair floated on the surface, its ends curling around the ice.
I slowly put the glass down.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Brittany turned around.
“What now?”
“Your hair is in my wine.”
She glanced at the glass and shrugged.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking at your age anyway.”
For a moment, I genuinely had no words.
Then she lifted her phone over the seat.
“Guys, the angry grandmother is giving me another look!”
