Saved the Hair Conditioner, Missed the Flight

So I'm writing this from a very uncomfortable "leather" chair at Gate A3 of the LaGuardia Airport in Queens, N.Y. My butt hurts and my nerves are in worse shape. See, I'm supposed to be on my way to my grandmother's house, but the big bad wolf that is the Transportation Security Administration had other ideas. "My, what big badges you have!"

See, I had this $20, eight-once bottle of leave-in conditioner that I stupidly packed in my carry-on bag and not my check-in bag (I've been living out of these two DVF workhorses since May, so I should know better. And I should have read Emily's post on how to pack like a pro.) As soon as I reached into my purse to pull out my laptop, I saw it -- the terrorist threat/crack-in-a bottle that would do me in. My first reaction was to play it cool -- maybe nobody will notice. But these people are paid to notice, and frankly, if that cute little 20-something in the ill-fitting uniform hadn't pulled me aside while waving that HUGE bottle of conditioner in my face, then this post would've been about how much money we're wasting on airport security (side note: No one has ever batted an eye or a baton at the pepper spray that goes with me everywhere).

So Mister Cutie-Making-Me-Throw-Away-My-Conditioner sees the tears in my eyes and suggests I squeeze the offending eight-ounce bottle into three tiny, non-terroristy travel bottles. My plane leaves in 20 minutes, but I refuse to let the terrorists win, so I grab the bottle and try my luck, which runs out as soon as the cashier informs me that they don't sell travel bottles. So then Mr. TSA suggests I go all the way downstairs to the airport post office and send the conditioner to my grandmother's house. I've got on running shoes (read ballet flats) so why not? Call me Kiefer. My plane leaves in 15 minutes.

After waiting about 10 minutes for the post office guy to come to the window I finally notice the sign written in Magic Marker that's been staring me in the face: "No credit or debit accepted." Guess who never has cash? So now it's back upstairs to the ATM machine to pay $3 for a $20 bill. At this point I still have hope. Hope sinks when there's a HUGE line at the airport post office and only one Mr. Postman, who asks, "Will you be needing any stamps today?" About 10 minutes and $5 dollars later, my precious conditioner is on its way to L.A. while I am, definitely, not.

All this is to say that I'm a ridiculous traveler because of my mother. Once I caused me and my ex-boyfriend to miss a train to New York because I was cleaning the bathroom. My mother taught me never to come home to a messy house. She also hates to see me with frizzy hair.