The terrorists don't hate us for our freedoms

They hate us for our fabulous hair products.

My One Pass frequent flyer reward ticket required a Saturday overnight stay, so I flew to Houston and spent the evening hanging out with my brother at his gig, where I proceeded to party like it was 1985. In retrospect, this was probably not wise. In retrospect, I probably should have partied like it was 2035, and I was safely tucked away in a home somewhere. Or just acted my age and not partied at all. As if that were an option.

I was due at the airport first thing in the morning to fly to New York to meet Kim. I knew I was in trouble when I arrived at George Bush Intercontinental and the the sky cap couldn't check my bag because the flight was leaving within 15 minutes.

I am a seasoned traveler. I have a few miles under my belt and I know that being late for a plane never used to be that big a deal. You shouldered your bag, put your shoes, belt and jacket back on and ran like hell. If you missed the flight, you caught the next. You had your stuff and you lost only time and a little dignity.

No more.

I've flown several times since the new TSA restrictions limiting carry-on gels, liquids and lotions and had the routine down pat; there was only a powder compact, lipstick and eye pencil in my carry-on. Everything else a girl could possibly need for a few days in Manhattan was in my suitcase, which should have been safely stowed in checked luggage, but was now subject to TSA requirements, wide open and vulnerable before a uniformed man with a badge, gloves and absolutely no appreciation of the importance of exfoliants.

When he found the zippered case with it's treasure trove of toiletries, his eyes widened at the depth of my cluelessness. I explained that I had expected to check the bag but couldn't because I was late for the plane, which was leaving in less than 10 minutes. He pulled out a tiny plastic baggy ~ a sandwich bag, really ~ explaining that everything I needed had to fit in that one container. And as he started putting some things in the bag and tossing others into the tray, we began to barter.

In all fairness, he was a nice and amiable young man and did his best to be accommodating. We were smiles all around.

The Design Line silk drops shine serum had to go; the L'oreal Color Saving Conditioner with Vitamin E and UV filter could stay. When the ziplock wouldn't close (and it absolutely had to close) I traded the Aquafresh toothpaste and mouthwash for the Joey New York Line Up Night Moisturizer. The Origins Never A Dull Moment Skin Brightening Face Polisher with fruit enzymes appeared non-negotiable, but when he picked up the brand new bottle of eau de toilette I'd just gotten, he responded to my horrified recoil and cry of "Oh, no! Not the Chanel...!" with a sympathetic, "No, no; I think it's small enough to make the cut," and jammed it into the baggy. When I couldn't get it to close, he took it and pulled it tight by the sheer force of pity and goodwill. In truth, he was adorable. I blessed him, grabbed my now slightly lighter bag and staggered off running toward the gate.

The plane, of course, had long since departed. A laughing Continental employee informed me, when I told her where I was going, "Not on this plane you're not," re-booked me on a flight leaving within the hour and directed me to the new gate in terminal E.

"Go down to the end of the corridor, make a left, make a right; about a half mile you'll find an escalator. Take that up to the train on level 3. Ride that to the end of the line. That's Terminal D. From there you'll take a cab, or a camel if you can find one..." Or something like that. I stopped hearing her after the phrase 'take the train'. It was starting to feel like a very long day.

I boarded the plane and took the window seat next to a large woman in a hijab, mother to an adorable toddler whose screams upon taxiing were so ferocious that the attendants threatened to take the plane back to the gate if she couldn't control him. I took my pillow and leaned against window.

"What is wrong? Do you have a headache?" she inquired.

"I do."

"Is it a migraine?"

"No. Just a headache."

"Oh, I am sorry." She grabbed her son, who was climbing over me to get to the window. "Come," she said, "she is in no mood for you."

I smiled wanly. I appreciated the gesture and really wanted to be friendlier, but last night's tequila was banging around my skull and I was still mourning the loss of all those lovely personal grooming products.

During the course of the flight, as the child wailed and the woman's sharp elbows wacked me repeatedly in my ever-diminishing space, I closed my eyes, contemplating just how one would go about assembling a WMD on a crowded plane with an ounce of perfume, some hair gel and a pair of nail clippers without anybody noticing.

I still don't know if it's possible. I rather suspect that it isn't. But I do know that the meditation proved surprisingly soothing, and I drifted to sleep with a smile on my face.