Thick, golden strands covered my laptop screen like I didn’t exist. I paused, reminding myself: stay calm. You’ve dealt with angry CEOs.
You can handle this. “Excuse me,” I said politely. “Your hair is on my tray table.
Could you please move it?”
She turned around, surprised. “Oh! Sorry,” she said sweetly and pulled it back.
Okay. Problem solved. For eleven minutes.
Then—whip!—her hair was back. This time, some product rubbed off onto my screen. “Excuse me,” I said again, firmer this time.
“Your hair is in my space again.”
She didn’t turn. She just waved her hand lazily like I was a buzzing fly. “Miss,” I said clearly.
“Please move your hair.”
Nothing. She kept snapping selfies. The flash bounced off the seat in front of me.
I’d had enough. I leaned forward and gently pushed her hair back toward her seat. She spun around, eyes wide.
“Did you just touch my hair?”
“I did,” I said calmly. “Because I’ve asked you twice.”
“You don’t get to touch me!” she snapped. “And you don’t get to fling your hair into someone else’s seat,” I replied.
She glared at me, then turned around and dramatically tossed her hair back—harder than before. It spilled into my lap like a golden curtain.
That’s when something in me snapped.
I opened my bag, took out a pack of gum, and began to chew.
Slowly. Methodically. The gum softened as I planned my move.
I selected a thick section of her hair and gently worked the gum into it—carefully, precisely, the way I once solved million-dollar client issues with post-its and flowcharts. Then I did it again. And again.
Three perfect placements. She didn’t notice. Fifteen minutes later, she ran her fingers through her hair—and froze.
“What… is… this?!” She gasped. I didn’t look up from my movie. “You’re insane!” she yelled.
“You put gum in my hair!”
“And you’ve been invading my space for an hour,” I said. “Take it out. Right now!”
“I can help,” I offered.
“I have manicure scissors. Or… you can wait and go to a salon. Your call.”
She stared at me like I had just murdered her dog.
Eventually, she gave in. I pulled out the scissors and began cutting. I worked with the same calm I used in boardrooms, explaining each step.
“You’ll lose about three inches in three spots. I’ll blend it so it’s not obvious.”
She sat stiff and silent. When I finished, she tied her hair into a bun.
No more drama. No selfies. No attitude.
“I’m Sarah,” she said after a while. “Lauren,” I replied. “I… I didn’t mean to be that person,” she said quietly.
“I just never really thought about how my actions affect others.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “the only way people learn is when someone finally calls them out.”
Months later, I got an email from her.
Subject: The Gum Incident—Update
She told me the experience changed her. She cut her hair short, changed her major from marketing to social work, and started a program called “Applied Ethics Through Natural Consequences.” She helps privileged young people learn empathy by putting them in real situations with real feedback. “I’m not saying thank you for the gum,” she wrote.
“But I needed that wake-up call. It changed me.”
We kept in touch. Shared ideas.
Compared experiences. What began as conflict became collaboration—and then, a kind of friendship. Two years later, I flew to a conference where Sarah presented her work.
The title? “Teaching Empathy Through Consequences.”
As the plane took off, I smiled. Not just because I had the aisle seat and the person in front of me kept their hair to themselves.
