Sometimes the most important lessons are learned at 30,000 feet.
The Journey Begins
After three weeks of fourteen-hour workdays, client meetings that stretched past midnight, and a project that had consumed every waking moment of my life, I was finally boarding Flight 447 to San Francisco. The past month had been a blur of conference calls, presentations, and the kind of high-stakes negotiations that left me questioning whether the corporate world was slowly eating away at my soul.
My name is Rebecca Chen, and I’m a senior consultant for a management firm that specializes in corporate restructuring. It’s the kind of job that sounds impressive at dinner parties but leaves you wondering if you’ve forgotten how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve quarterly projections and efficiency metrics.
This flight was supposed to be my sanctuary—five hours of uninterrupted time to decompress, catch up on some reading, maybe watch a movie I’d been meaning to see for months. I’d specifically booked a window seat in economy plus, splurging on the extra legroom and slightly wider seat because I felt I deserved it after the hell I’d been through.
As I settled into seat 14A, I took a deep breath and allowed myself to feel genuinely excited for the first time in weeks. I had my noise-canceling headphones, a book I’d been dying to read, and the in-flight entertainment system was loaded with movies I’d missed during my work-induced hibernation.
The flight wasn’t completely full, which was a small miracle in itself. I watched other passengers file past, most of them looking as travel-weary as I felt. There were the usual suspects: business travelers with their laptops already out, families corralling young children, and the occasional person who looked like they were heading somewhere exciting rather than running from something stressful.
That’s when she boarded.
The Hair Incident
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, with the kind of effortless beauty that probably made her Instagram followers weep with envy. Her hair was her crown jewel—thick, lustrous, and reaching nearly to her waist. It was the color of honey in sunlight, with subtle waves that suggested she’d either been blessed by the hair gods or had an excellent stylist.
She was wearing what looked like designer athleisure—the kind of outfit that cost more than my monthly grocery budget but was meant to look casual and thrown-together. Everything about her screamed “influencer” or “lifestyle blogger,” from her perfectly applied makeup to the way she held her phone like it was a natural extension of her arm.
She slid into seat 13A, directly in front of me, and I noticed she was traveling alone. She immediately began the familiar ritual of getting settled—adjusting her seat, organizing her belongings, and taking what appeared to be several selfies. I tried not to judge. Everyone had their coping mechanisms for air travel.
The plane began taxiing toward the runway, and I felt that familiar mix of anticipation and slight anxiety that comes with takeoff. I’d been flying for work for over a decade, but I still felt a small thrill every time the plane lifted off the ground.
That’s when it happened.
As we gained altitude and the seatbelt sign turned off, the young woman in front of me stood up slightly and, in one fluid motion, flipped her magnificent hair over the back of her seat. The entire cascade of honey-colored waves came tumbling over my tray table, effectively creating a curtain between me and my personal entertainment screen.
I stared at the wall of hair in disbelief. It was like someone had hung a beaded curtain made of human hair between me and the rest of the world. I could barely see the screen, and when I tried to reach for my water bottle, I had to navigate through her tresses.
Surely this was an accident, I thought. No one could be this oblivious to their surroundings, especially not someone who clearly spent a lot of time thinking about her appearance.
The Polite Approach
I cleared my throat gently and leaned forward. “Excuse me,” I said in my most diplomatic voice, the one I used with difficult clients who needed to be handled with kid gloves. “Would you mind moving your hair? It’s blocking my screen.”
She turned around slightly, and I got a glimpse of her face. She was even prettier than I’d initially thought, with clear skin and striking green eyes. She looked genuinely apologetic.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she said, quickly gathering her hair and pulling it to one side. “I didn’t even realize. I’m used to traveling first class where there’s more space.”
I felt a flicker of annoyance at the casual mention of first class, but I pushed it down. We all had our circumstances, and there was no point in getting worked up over what was clearly an innocent mistake.
“No problem,” I replied with a smile. “Thanks for understanding.”
She turned back around, and I settled in to finally start my movie. I’d chosen a thriller that had gotten great reviews, something mindless and entertaining that would help me forget about quarterly reports and client demands.
For about ten minutes, everything was perfect. I was getting lost in the opening credits, my noise-canceling headphones were blocking out the ambient plane sounds, and I was finally starting to feel the tension leave my shoulders.
Then the hair came back.
This time, it happened more gradually. I noticed strands starting to creep over my tray table, then more, until once again I was staring at a wall of blonde waves instead of my movie screen. It was like watching a very slow-motion waterfall of hair.
I paused my movie and leaned forward again. “Excuse me,” I said, a little less diplomatically this time. “Your hair is blocking my screen again.”
This time, she didn’t turn around. She either didn’t hear me or was choosing to ignore me. I waited a moment, then tried again, speaking a little louder.
“Miss? Your hair?”
Still nothing. I could see her scrolling through her phone, completely absorbed in whatever social media platform was currently commanding her attention. She was wearing earbuds, but I could tell the volume wasn’t so high that she couldn’t hear me—I could see her occasionally respond to things happening around her in the cabin.
I felt my jaw clench. This was no longer an innocent mistake. This was willful ignorance, and I was not in the mood for it.
The Breaking Point
Twenty minutes passed. Twenty minutes of me staring at someone else’s hair instead of enjoying the movie I’d been looking forward to. I tried leaning to the left to see around it, but that put me practically in my neighbor’s lap. I tried leaning to the right, but the hair seemed to follow me like some kind of follicular stalker.
I considered calling a flight attendant, but what would I say? “Excuse me, but the woman in front of me has too much hair”? It seemed petty and ridiculous, even though it was genuinely affecting my ability to enjoy the flight I’d paid for.
The more I stared at that wall of hair, the more frustrated I became. It wasn’t just about the blocked screen anymore—it was about basic courtesy, about the unspoken social contract that governs how we treat each other in shared spaces.
I thought about all the times I’d been considerate of other passengers. I’d given up armrests to larger travelers, kept my voice down during phone calls, and always made sure my belongings stayed within the boundaries of my own seat. I’d followed the golden rule of travel: treat others the way you want to be treated.
But apparently, this young woman had never learned that lesson.
I watched her take another selfie, angling her phone to capture her hair cascading over my seat. The irony wasn’t lost on me—she was literally using my discomfort as a prop for her social media content.
That’s when something inside me snapped.
I’m not usually a vindictive person. I pride myself on being professional, rational, and measured in my responses to difficult situations. But three weeks of stress, combined with the casual disrespect I was experiencing, had pushed me past my breaking point.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a pack of gum. I unwrapped three pieces and began chewing them slowly, methodically, while I planned my next move.
The Retaliation
What I did next was probably not my finest moment as a human being, but I can’t say I regret it entirely. I had reached the limit of my patience, and sometimes desperate times call for desperate measures.
I chewed the gum until it was soft and pliable, then carefully removed it from my mouth. Working with the precision that had made me successful in my career, I began placing small pieces of the gum into her hair. Not randomly—I was strategic about it. I chose sections that were draped over my tray table, areas where the gum would be most difficult to remove.
Strand by strand, I worked the gum into her hair. It was surprisingly easy—the gum blended in with the honey-colored waves, becoming nearly invisible until you looked closely. I was careful to keep my movements subtle, just in case anyone was watching.
The whole process took about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes during which I felt a mix of satisfaction and guilt that I’d never experienced before. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I also felt like I was finally standing up for myself after years of being too polite, too accommodating, too willing to let people walk all over me.
When I was finished, I sat back in my seat and waited. I resumed watching my movie, though I have to admit I was more focused on anticipating her reaction than I was on the plot.
She shifted in her seat a few times, and I noticed her hand go to her hair occasionally, as if she sensed something was different. But she didn’t turn around, didn’t investigate further.
Then, about ten minutes after I’d finished my handiwork, she reached up to adjust her hair and froze.
The Discovery
“What the hell?” she said, her voice loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the cabin.
She began running her fingers through her hair, and I could see the exact moment she realized the full extent of the situation. Her perfectly manicured fingers kept getting stuck, and she was pulling at sections of hair that were now firmly cemented together with chewing gum.
“What is this?” she said, turning around to face me for the first time since her half-hearted apology earlier. Her green eyes were wide with shock and growing anger.
I looked up from my movie with what I hoped was an expression of innocent confusion. “Is everything okay?”
“Someone put gum in my hair!” she announced, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was saying. “Someone actually put gum in my hair!”
“That’s terrible,” I said, my voice completely neutral. “How do you think that happened?”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was trying to figure out if I was responsible, but she had no proof. For all she knew, it could have been the person sitting behind me, or someone who had walked past her seat.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, “but I’m going to find out.”
She turned back around and began the futile process of trying to remove the gum from her hair. I watched with detached interest as she pulled and tugged, becoming increasingly frustrated with each failed attempt.
“This is impossible,” she muttered, loud enough for me to hear. “It’s completely stuck.”
That’s when I decided to make my move.
The Ultimatum
I paused my movie and leaned forward slightly. “You know,” I said in a conversational tone, “I might be able to help you with that.”
She turned around again, her expression suspicious. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I have some experience with gum removal,” I lied smoothly. “I have a younger sister who used to get gum stuck in her hair all the time. The trick is to use ice to freeze it, or oil to lubricate it. But honestly, with this much gum, you might need to cut it out.”
Her face went pale. “Cut it out? Are you insane? Do you know how long it took me to grow this hair?”
“I’m just being realistic,” I said with a shrug. “Gum is notoriously difficult to remove from hair, especially when it’s been worked in as thoroughly as yours has been. Someone really did a number on you.”
She stared at me, and I could see her trying to decide whether I was being helpful or mocking her.
“You seem to know a lot about this,” she said slowly.
“Like I said, I have experience.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a small pair of manicure scissors. “Actually, I have these with me. They’re quite sharp. I could help you cut out the worst of it right now if you’d like.”
The offer hung in the air between us like a challenge. She looked at the scissors, then at me, then back at the scissors.
“You’re crazy,” she said, but there was uncertainty in her voice.
“I’m practical,” I corrected. “You have two choices here. You can spend the rest of the flight trying unsuccessfully to remove the gum, and then deal with an even bigger mess when you land. Or you can let me help you minimize the damage right now.”
She was quiet for a moment, her fingers still working futilely at the gum-laden sections of her hair.
“Why would you help me?” she asked suspiciously.
I smiled, and it wasn’t entirely friendly. “Because I believe in solving problems efficiently. And because I think you might have learned something about airplane etiquette today.”
The Realization
The light dawned in her eyes, and I watched as she put the pieces together. Her expression cycled through disbelief, anger, and finally, a grudging respect.
“You did this,” she said quietly. “You put gum in my hair.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, but my tone made it clear that we both knew exactly what I was talking about.
“This is assault,” she said, but without much conviction.
“Actually, it’s a response to your repeated invasion of my personal space after I politely asked you to stop,” I said calmly. “But you’re welcome to explain the situation to the flight attendants if you’d like. I’m sure they’d be very interested in hearing about how your hair ended up blocking another passenger’s screen for over an hour.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her weighing her options. She could make a scene, call for help, try to get me in trouble. But doing so would also mean admitting that she’d been inconsiderate, that she’d ignored my repeated requests, and that she’d essentially been using my seat as an extension of her own.
“You’re insane,” she said finally.
“And you’re inconsiderate,” I replied. “But I’m offering you a solution. Do you want my help or not?”
She looked around the cabin, perhaps hoping for support from other passengers or a flight attendant. But everyone else was absorbed in their own activities, and no one seemed to have noticed our quiet confrontation.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “But I want you to know that this is crazy.”
“Noted,” I said, picking up my scissors. “Now, turn around and let me see what we’re working with.”
The Reluctant Cooperation
What followed was perhaps the most awkward hair salon experience in aviation history. I worked carefully, trying to remove as much of the gum as possible without cutting away more hair than necessary. It was delicate work, requiring me to get much closer to this stranger than either of us was comfortable with.
“You know,” I said as I worked, “this could have been avoided if you’d just been more considerate of other passengers.”
“I said I was sorry,” she mumbled.
“You said you were sorry and then immediately did it again,” I corrected. “And then you ignored me when I asked you to stop a second time.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I was trying to get a good photo,” she said finally. “My hair looks better when it’s loose and flowing.”
“For Instagram?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“For my blog,” she said defensively. “I have followers who expect certain content from me.”
I paused in my cutting to look at her. “You were using my discomfort as a prop for your social media content.”
She had the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“That’s the problem,” I said, resuming my work. “You didn’t think of it at all. You didn’t think about how your actions were affecting the person behind you. You just assumed your needs were more important than anyone else’s.”
“I’m not usually like this,” she said quietly.
“What are you usually like?” I asked, genuinely curious.
She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know anymore,” she said finally. “I started this blog two years ago, and it’s taken over my life. Everything I do is content. Every meal, every outfit, every moment has to be photographed and shared. I can’t even go to the bathroom without thinking about whether I could get a good mirror selfie.”
There was something vulnerable in her voice that made me pause. I’d been so focused on my own frustration that I hadn’t considered what might be driving her behavior.
“That sounds exhausting,” I said.
“It is,” she admitted. “But it’s also my job now. I have brand partnerships, sponsored content, followers who depend on me for inspiration. I can’t just turn it off.”
I finished cutting out the last piece of gum and sat back to assess my work. I’d managed to remove most of it, but there were definitely some shorter sections where the gum had been too embedded to save the hair.
“There,” I said. “It’s not perfect, but it’s manageable. You’ll probably want to go to a real salon when you land to even things out.”
She reached up to feel her hair, and I could see her fighting back tears. “It’s so much shorter.”
“Hair grows back,” I said, more gently than I’d spoken to her before. “And honestly, it still looks good. You might even like it once you get used to it.”
The Unexpected Conversation
She turned back around in her seat, and I expected that to be the end of our interaction. But after a few minutes, she spoke again.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I said, though I was already regretting my decision to help her.
“Do you ever feel like you’re losing yourself?”
The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you ever feel like you’re so focused on meeting everyone else’s expectations that you forget who you actually are?”
I thought about my own life—the endless client demands, the pressure to always be “on,” the way I’d gradually stopped doing things I enjoyed because they didn’t fit with my professional image.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Actually, I do.”
“I used to love photography,” she said, her voice barely audible over the plane’s engine noise. “Real photography, not just selfies and outfit posts. I wanted to be a photojournalist, to travel the world and tell important stories.”
“What happened?”
“This happened,” she said, gesturing to her phone. “I started posting my photos online, and people liked them. Then brands started reaching out, wanting to work with me. The money was good, better than anything I could make as a freelance photographer. So I kept doing it, and kept doing it, until it became my whole identity.”
I found myself genuinely interested in her story. “Do you miss it? The real photography?”
“Every day,” she said. “But I don’t know how to get back to it. I have rent to pay, and this lifestyle blog pays the bills. I can’t just walk away from it.”
“You could scale back,” I suggested. “Maybe start incorporating more of the photography you actually want to do.”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “You don’t understand. My followers expect a certain type of content. If I start posting different things, I’ll lose them. And if I lose them, I lose my income.”
“But if you’re not happy—”
“Happiness is a luxury I can’t afford right now,” she said firmly. “I have student loans, credit card debt, and a lease on an apartment I can barely afford. This blog is the only thing keeping me afloat.”
I understood that feeling all too well. I’d taken my current job not because I loved corporate consulting, but because it paid well and offered security. I’d told myself it was temporary, just until I got my finances in order. That was eight years ago.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m sorry for what I did to your hair, and I’m sorry you feel trapped.”
She looked surprised by my apology. “You don’t need to apologize. I was being a brat, and you called me out on it. Maybe I needed that.”
“Still, putting gum in your hair was pretty extreme.”
“It was,” she agreed. “But it was also kind of brilliant. I’ll definitely think twice before I let my hair flop all over someone else’s space again.”
The Unexpected Understanding
The rest of the flight passed more pleasantly than I could have imagined. We didn’t become best friends or anything, but we had what I’d call a civil conversation. She told me about her blog, her struggles with social media pressure, and her dreams of returning to real photography someday. I told her about my own career frustrations, my workaholic tendencies, and my growing sense that I’d lost track of what actually made me happy.
“You know what’s funny?” she said as we began our descent into San Francisco. “This is probably the most real conversation I’ve had in months. Usually, I’m so focused on how I’m presenting myself that I never just talk to people.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I spend so much time managing my professional image that I sometimes forget I’m allowed to have opinions and feelings that aren’t related to work.”
She smiled, and for the first time, it looked genuine rather than practiced. “Maybe we both needed this flight.”
“Maybe we did.”
As we were deplaning, she turned to me one more time. “I know this is weird, but would you mind if I followed you on Instagram? I’d like to see what you’re up to.”
I laughed. “I barely use Instagram. My life isn’t nearly photogenic enough for social media.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what I need to see,” she said. “Someone who’s living life instead of just documenting it.”
I gave her my handle, and she followed me immediately. Within minutes, I had a follow back from @wanderinglensgirl, and I was surprised to see that her actual photography—the few non-lifestyle shots she’d posted—was genuinely impressive.
The Aftermath
That was six months ago. I’m not going to pretend that one airplane encounter changed both of our lives dramatically, but it did plant some seeds that have been growing ever since.
I started setting better boundaries at work, saying no to projects that would require me to sacrifice my entire personal life. I took up hiking again, something I’d loved in college but had abandoned in favor of networking events and professional development seminars. I even started dating again, something I’d put on hold while I focused on my career.
As for @wanderinglensgirl—whose real name, I learned, is Madison—she’s been slowly transitioning her content. She still does lifestyle posts because they pay the bills, but she’s also been incorporating more of her artistic photography. She’s even started a side project documenting homelessness in her city, which has gotten attention from some legitimate news outlets.
We don’t talk regularly, but we occasionally comment on each other’s posts, and she sent me a message a few weeks ago saying she’d booked her first photojournalism assignment in two years.
I won’t lie—I still feel a little guilty about the gum incident. It was vindictive and potentially damaging, and I’m not proud of my behavior. But I also can’t deny that it led to a conversation and a connection that neither of us expected.
The whole experience taught me something important about the assumptions we make about other people. I saw Madison as a shallow, inconsiderate influencer, and she probably saw me as an uptight, humorless businesswoman. We were both partially right, but we were also both much more complicated than our initial impressions suggested.
The Lessons Learned
Looking back, I think the airplane incident was about more than just hair blocking a screen. It was about boundaries, respect, and the way we navigate shared spaces in an increasingly connected but often inconsiderate world.
I learned that sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, even when it’s uncomfortable. I’d spent so many years being polite and accommodating that I’d forgotten it was okay to push back when someone was genuinely affecting my well-being.
But I also learned that there’s usually more to a situation than meets the eye. Madison’s inconsiderate behavior wasn’t just about selfishness—it was about pressure, insecurity, and the way social media can warp our sense of what’s important.
I’m not advocating for putting gum in people’s hair as a conflict resolution strategy. But I am saying that sometimes the most unexpected encounters can lead to the most meaningful connections.
And I’m definitely saying that airplane etiquette matters. We’re all stuck in a metal tube together for hours at a time, and a little consideration goes a long way.
The next time I fly, I’ll probably be more direct about addressing problems before they escalate. And I’ll definitely pack some ice cubes instead of gum.
But I’ll also remember that the person sitting in front of me, behind me, or next to me is probably dealing with their own struggles, their own pressures, and their own attempts to figure out how to live a meaningful life in a complicated world.
Sometimes the best thing that can happen on a flight is discovering that the person who’s driving you crazy is actually someone you can learn from—even if the lesson comes with a side of chewing gum.
