I Just Wanted Silence. But Instead, I Started a War at 30,000 Feet.
After 72 straight hours of project deadlines, stress migraines, and cold coffee, I finally felt the slightest sliver of relief as I settled into my window seat.
I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to smile. All I wanted was to close my eyes, maybe cry a little in peace, and feel like a human again.
This flight wasn’t just a journey home. It was an escape.
I clicked play on an old comfort movie. Something with Tom Hanks. Something warm.
And then, swoosh—something heavy and dark slid into my peripheral vision.
Her hair.
A long, thick curtain of deep brunette. Glossy, clearly well-cared-for. And now…spread out across my tray table. Draped like I was a piece of furniture.
I blinked.
At first, I thought—Maybe she’ll notice. Maybe it was just an accident.
But she settled back in her seat like a queen on her throne, tugged a blanket over her chest, and popped in earbuds like she had conquered her territory.
Maybe I’m overreacting, I told myself. Don’t cause a scene.
I leaned forward and tapped her shoulder. “Hey, excuse me—your hair’s kind of in my space. Do you mind just pulling it back?”
She turned slightly. Smiled. “Oh, sorry!” She pulled it forward and I thanked her.
Ten minutes passed.
I started to feel my body relax, finally. My screen was visible again. I sipped ginger ale.
And then…
It came back.
Like a slap in the face. Her hair, once again, tossed over my tray table. This time with even more confidence. Like she was daring me to say something.
I stared at it. Long and heavy. Completely blocking my screen.
I tapped her shoulder again. Nothing.
Again. She didn’t move.
She pretended not to hear me.
I sat there, heart pounding, suddenly so tired of being polite. So tired of being the quiet one. The reasonable one.
And something inside me snapped.
Call it pettiness. Call it sleep deprivation. Call it war.
I slowly reached into my carry-on and pulled out a small pack of gum.
Three pieces.
I unwrapped them, one by one, and chewed them slowly. Deliberately.
The flavor faded. But my resolve didn’t.
Then, as calmly as if I were folding a napkin, I reached forward…and began placing tiny, sticky pieces into her hair.
Strand by strand. Quietly. Carefully.
Each movement felt like poetry. Like justice.
Fifteen minutes passed. I was three gums deep. I had created a modern art sculpture in her hair.
And then—she turned around.
Not fully. Just enough to sense something was off.
She reached for her hair. Paused. Then slowly, as her fingers touched the gum, her posture changed.
Her shoulders stiffened. Her breath caught.
She froze.
I pretended not to notice.
She didn’t say a word for a full minute. Then, in a whisper, she turned and asked, “Did you put something in my hair?”
I kept my eyes on the screen. “I asked you to move your hair. Twice.”
Her voice trembled. “You don’t understand…”
She reached up and began tugging at the gum. Her fingers caught. Her breath hitched.
That’s when I saw it—her shoulders shaking.
And then…
She started crying. Not loud, but broken. Like the kind of cry you try to bury in a pillow.
The man beside her leaned over and said softly, “Is it happening again?”
She nodded, and whispered, “I can’t—I thought I was getting better.”
I felt something ice-cold crawl through my chest.
She stood up abruptly and stumbled toward the restroom, hair in her hand, gum sticking to her fingers. Everyone turned to look. Flight attendants followed.
The man leaned over and said something I will never forget:
“She has trichotillomania. Hair-pulling disorder. She was so proud of finally growing it out again.”
I couldn’t speak.
I sat there, staring at my hands. The gum wrappers. The screen still paused on a happy scene.
I wanted to melt through the seat and disappear. I wanted to take back every piece of gum.
But I couldn’t.
When she returned, her hair was wet, tied up, patches missing. She didn’t look at me.
And I couldn’t blame her.
I boarded that flight seeking peace.
Instead, I destroyed someone else’s.
And the worst part?
I told myself I was the victim.
