After days of exhausting work, I finally boarded the plane. For me, this flight wasn’t just a mode of transport — it was my salvation.
Following relentless deadlines, demanding days, and constant pressure, all I wanted was some quiet, peace,
and a few hours to unwind, to watch a movie I’d been trying to fit into my schedule for months.
I had already pictured the moment the plane would take off, the world would calm down for a while, and I’d lean back in my seat, headphones on, starting the screen and getting lost in the story.
But as soon as the plane began to taxi, that image shattered.
Right in front of me sat a young woman. In her early twenties, stylishly dressed, with thick, long, light brown hair cascading in soft waves down her back — and with a swift motion, she tossed it back.
Onto my tray table. Onto my screen. Into my space.
Her hair completely obscured the monitor. It was like someone silently drawing a curtain in a theater just as the play was starting.
At first, I blinked awkwardly. Maybe she didn’t notice, I thought.
Maybe she forgot she wasn’t alone on the plane. For a moment, I even felt pity — who wants conflict during a tiring journey?
So, I leaned forward gently and politely asked her to move her hair because I couldn’t see. She smiled apologetically, said sorry, and pulled it back.
But ten minutes later, the hair was back again, with the same indifferent attitude.
This time I asked more firmly, but she didn’t even glance my way. She pretended I wasn’t there. The hair fell again like a silky veil, blocking my screen, my movie, my calm.
At that moment something inside me shifted. I didn’t get angry — instead, a quiet resolve settled.
The peace I deserved had been taken from me by someone who respected nothing — neither my space, nor my time, nor my tranquility.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t draw attention. I simply took out three small pieces of chewing gum from my bag.
I popped them in one by one, chewing slowly and calmly, while looking out the window at the world preparing for takeoff.
When the gum reached the perfect sticky texture, I leaned forward and began to work quietly.
I picked a strand, then another, and with almost artistic precision, stuck the gum onto her hair. Not all at once, not hurriedly.
I tried to make it a little quiet ritual. With the calmness of someone weaving flowers into a wreath.
About fifteen minutes passed. The movie played quietly in the background; I wasn’t paying attention anymore, just enjoying taking back something that was taken from me.
Then suddenly, she moved. Reached back. Her fingers paused in her hair, then tensed. She felt it. Her face froze. She looked at her hands. And then she understood.
Her eyes widened. Embarrassed, she tried to pull the gum off her strands but only made it stick worse.
Her voice hissed softly as she turned to me:
— What is this? Are you crazy?
I calmly looked at the screen and answered quietly:
— This is the consequence of not respecting others’ boundaries.
— You’re insane! You’re not normal!
I slowly turned toward her and said in the calmest voice I could manage:
— You have two options. One: keep it like this and have someone cut it out with scissors at home. Two: I have a manicure scissors in my bag and I can help you now. Gently.
Her face paled. She tried to say something else but no sound came out.
I leaned closer and whispered:
— If you toss your hair over someone else’s space again, next time you’ll get off the plane bald. Believe me, I’m very precise. Even in turbulence.
The rest of the flight passed in complete silence. She sat motionless, hair tightly tied in a bun, head bowed, as if I didn’t exist.
And I finally relaxed and enjoyed the movie I had long awaited.
But best of all: I reclaimed my peace and defended my space. Not with force. Just a well-timed little lesson.