A young woman mocked my age at the airport, then spent our entire flight throwing her long hair into my face and food. She thought a 73-year-old woman couldn’t fight back. Good thing I’d made one very unusual purchase at duty-free.

She whipped her head around again.

This time it caught my hand.

“Does it always need that much room?”

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“It’s called volume.”

“I see. I thought Cousin Itt had finally found a conditioner.”

The cashier lost it completely.

“Whatever. Some people just can’t appreciate good hair.” At the door she turned. “Maybe you’re just jealous.”

“Of the perfume? Not particularly.”

She left. The smell stayed behind like a guest who hadn’t noticed the party was over.

The cashier scanned my present. “Lucky granddaughter.”

“She’d better think so.