Foiling terrorists

Yesterday morning we watched the news about the airplane bomb plot and started talking about our plans to fly back to LA. We were eating breakfast with the newspapers spread around us. I was reading the Telegraph, Dark was reading Metro … (in LA it’s me with the NY and LA Times and Dark with Variety). Opposites attract you know.

Bf: This has nothing to do with terrorists. It’s a plot by the liquor industry to boost sales. I mean if we have to be at the airport 3 hours early you’ll just be drinking for 3 hours. Profits are gonna soar I tell ya.
Me: Fuck you.
Bf: Time for that later. Right now we need to decide what to do about the flight home.
Me: What’s to decide?
Bf: I might want to call Cunard instead..
Me: Huh?
Bf: You can’t expect me to endure that entire flight without hair product.

That’s when my mouthful of bacon and eggs spewed across the table because his hair looked something like this:

His unruly mop of hair is something I love about him. As a child of the sixties (alright, a child of the fifties. now hush.) I like longer hair on a guy. God bless the hippie movement for liberating men from the number 2 blade. And now the concentration look is back. I know. I know. – I wear my hair short but I have to. I have bad hair that has to be tortured to look decent. No way in the world I could have longer hair and just wash it, comb it, and let it dry naturally like the bf. I was a slave to the hair dryer and hair product most of my adult life. Good thing I don’t use them now or I wouldn’t get on the plane. Forget about putting them in a checked suitcase. I have suitcases still circling Borneo from former flights. If I’m crashing into the Atlantic I’m crashing with great hair.

Me: Forget the QMII. Just wear a ball cap. I'm not letting the terrorists win.
Bf: You’re brilliant.
silence
Bf: Ok, we can fuck now.