Beauty Shop Tales. Nancy Robards Thompson

myself into this Boeing 707, I glance at the woman in the window seat, sitting all snug and relaxed, listening to her iPod, shutting out the rest of the world. Taking a cue from her, I focus on my breathing and try to redirect my thoughts to a happy place, but before I get there, a man pauses in the aisle beside me.

      “Excuse me, I think I’m sitting next to you.” He removes a black cowboy hat, glances at his boarding pass and gestures to the vacant middle seat. “Row twenty-five? Seat B?”

      The guy is tall—maybe six-four. The manly-man variety that takes up lots of space. The type who sprawls and hogs both armrests.

      Great.

      My legs feel like overcooked bucatini, but somehow, I manage to stand without whacking my head on the low-flying overhead storage bin.

      The cowboy can’t back up because there’s a long line of people behind him. Behind me, an older couple is stashing their belongings. With no other options, the cowboy and I do an awkward dance as he slides past me to the middle seat.

      Soon enough, I’m settled and attempting to resume my stream of reassuring thoughts. Let’s see, where was I…?

      Aerodynamics. Uhh, sure…that’s as good a place as any to start.

      Aerodynamics is a proven reality, not just Hollywood hype. Aerodynamics allow this eight-hundred-and-seventy-thousand-pound tin can, which is comprised of six million parts and one hundred and forty-seven thousand pounds of “high-strength aluminum,” to defy gravity.

      Which seems utterly ridiculous if you consider the laws of gravity. Because something this heavy is not supposed to fly. Then the airline fills it full of people and overstuffed luggage and those tiny bottles of booze and—

      Oh, God…

      I feel as if someone’s slipped a noose around my neck. Perhaps I need that booze to preempt an anxiety attack.

      All right. Settle down. Breathe.

      Aerodynamics.

      I learned those factoids about the makeup of an airplane on the Boeing Web site when I was surfing for comforting facts to quell my fears. I thought if anyone could sing the praises of flight safety, the airline manufacturer would have the shtick down pat.

      They did.

      Still, knowing myself like I do, I came up with a backup plan. Thus was born my list of the drawbacks of bus travel.

      And you thought I was an insufferable snob, didn’t you?

      I have one word for you: Self-preservation.

      Let’s just get through this. Focus, Avril. Happy thoughts.

      At this point, the flight attendants are midway through their pretakeoff spiel.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, please take note of the emergency exits located throughout the cabin.” They point their manicured fingers toward the sides of the plane and smile like we’re all at Disneyland. “In the unlikely event of an emergency, lights along the floor will direct you to an exit….”

      Emergency.

      The engines fire up.

      Oh, God…The noose tightens.

      I am perfectly safe.

      People fly every day.

      Statistically, I have a better chance of winning the lottery than being killed in a plane crash. Hollywood cannot change that reality.

      Oh, God…

      As the engines roar, and the plane taxis down the runway, I’m gripped by the third Hollywood truth: When bull-shit fails, backpedal like hell and disassociate yourself from the lie as fast as you can.

      I hate to fly. I really, really hate it. I can’t believe I tried to make myself buy into this crap. Forget aerodynamics. Huge, phallic-shaped metal objects that weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds are not supposed to swim weightlessly through the air thirty-five thousand feet above the clouds and the earth.

      The words Let me out of this death trap! gurgle up in my throat, but even if I could find my voice, it’s too late. The plane lifts off. The G-forces press me into the seat like invisible hands hell-bent on pinning me down.

      I hug myself and squeeze my eyes shut. My breath comes in short, quick gasps.

      “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!”

      “Are you okay?” the cowboy asks.

      I nod, vigorously, and realize I was probably muttering Oh, God under my breath. I hope I didn’t sound like I was having an orgasm.

      Biting the inside of my cheeks to keep other words from flying out, I draw in another deep breath through my nose. Come to think of it, I hate the smell of planes—that blend of humans, jet fuel and airplane food—almost as much as bus odor. Still, the scent, pleasant or not, is a touchstone, an anchor to the here and now, and I latch onto it like a life preserver, hugging myself tighter.

      “Takeoff’s my favorite part of the flight.”

      Huh?

      I open one eye and look at the cowboy. Not only is he taking up both armrests, he’s listing in my direction.

      He’s so much bigger than Chet, who was lean and fair and Hollywood fabulous. The cowboy is dark and good-looking if you like a raven-eyed, five-o’clock-shadow, feral-looking, Tim-McGraw sort of man. I shift away from his manliness.

      “There’s always so much possibility when a plane takes off.” He has one of those piercing, look-you-in-the-eyes kind of gazes. “It’s so symbolic. New places. New beginnings. New opportunities. What’s your favorite part of the ride?”

      My favorite—? Why is he talking to me? “I hate to fly.”

      “Really.” The word is a statement laced with a hint of sarcasm. “How can anybody hate to fly? Think of all you’d miss letting fear rule your life.”

      Who in the hell does he think he is? Anthony Robbins?

      “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m certainly not letting fear rule me. Otherwise I’d have my feet planted firmly on the ground rather than hanging out up here in the clouds, thirty-five thousand feet above—”

      The plane dips into an air pocket.

      “Oh, God!”

      The words are a whimper, and I melt into my seat, too scared to be thoroughly mortified for being such a big baby.

      Okay, maybe I’m a little mortified. Because he’s still staring at me.

      Oh, leave me alone. I close my eyes again, feeling the first waves of the Dramamine. That foggy, far-off haziness that clouds the head before it closes the eyes is creeping up on me.

      “Okay, you get partial credit for being here,” says the wise guy.

      Partial credit? Like I care. I swallow a yawn.

      “But to get full credit, you have to tell me your favorite part of the flight.”

      I’m tempted to tell him where to put his favorite part. To leave me alone so I can go to sleep and wake up when we’re safely back on the ground. But this guy is persistent. It’ll be a long, uncomfortable flight if I piss him off. I revert to Hollywood truth number four: Tell them what they want to hear and they’ll go away.

      “My favorite part of the flight?”

      He nods.

      My mouth is dry, but I manage to say, “When they open the door at the gate. Now leave me alone so I can go to sleep. My Dramamine is kicking in.”

      “Come on,” he says. “You can do better than that.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “That’s a cop-out. Opening the door at the gate is not part of the flight. The flight’s over.”

      “Well,