It landed on my tray table.
Several strands slid across my arm, and the ends brushed my forehead.
I gently lifted the hair and moved it away.
“Excuse me. Would you mind keeping that on your side?”
“Not now. I’m live.”
“I’m sure your audience can survive without watching the back of your head for a moment.”
She turned around.
“Oh, my God. It’s just hair.”
“Then it shouldn’t be difficult to move.”
Harold leaned toward me.
“Eight hundred dollars,” he whispered. “I paid less than that for my first car.”
“Did it have an engine?”
“Eventually.”
I laughed, grateful for the distraction.
But Brittany was not finished.
For the next twenty minutes, she repeatedly tossed her hair backward whenever she adjusted her position, checked her phone, or turned to address her followers.
Every time, the same thing happened.
Her hair landed on my tray table, brushed my shoulder, or fell across my armrest.
