Thaaaat's gonna leave a neck cramp

I've always been in favor of the Pam Grier-ified black afro. There's something very sexual, very primal about it; whenever I see a beautiful woman who's chosen to rock this 'do, even if she's casual as can be in a Summer maxi and wafer-thin flats or a straight-legged pair of jeans and a transition tee, I can't help but take a second look - gawk, really - and imagine what a confident little always-on-top hellcat she must be with the lights off.

Or, with the lights on.

But somewhere during my 42 minute flight between Traverse City and the Motor City last night, my love affair with the afro-puff took a sharp turn for the worse.

I didn't make a peep when I realized the massive orb I'd seen in the terminal atop a cute young thing's head was to flank me on the left and invade my personal space to the point where I had to arch my neck 70 degrees due right from taxi to takeoff to touchdown to avoid the nuisance of a constant cheek tickle.

I didn't exhibit a whit of impatience as I was forced to fold myself completely in half - nose-to-knees - to enjoy without hair-in-mouth incident the freshly-picked raspberries, Fig Newmans and Diet Vernor's 20 oz I'd packed myself for dinner.

But finally, finally I broke down and raised a minor protest when the young lady and her six-inch-radius hair-helmet settled into a position that got in the way of my being able to keep close watch on seat 2B in the First Class cabin.

Of course, I didn't come right out and say, "Hey, sorry to bother you, but I'm really impressed with celebrities, even F-list ones like that guy up there - the portly one with the mussed red ponytail and the orange Crocs - and I really need an unobstructed view of the back of his head for the duration of this flight, so could you do whatever it is you need to do to tuck your hair in a bit?"

No, instead I decided to simply push her head-to-toe bedenimed body aside with a few swift elbow juts, exaggerated neck stretches and finally, a signature move I hadn't unsheathed since the days when my big brother and I rode the backseat of the family Volvo for our annual 25 hour pilgrimage to the lakehouse -- that's right, the *super* wide-legged Indian-sit.

In the end, I got my celebristalker view back, but after having paid $180 to count my pup as a carry-on and after having endured a flight-delaying lecture from flight attendants Julio and Evelyn concerning my airline-approved Sherpa (see below) not sliding "all the way" under the seat in front of me, I couldn't help but be a wee bit peeved this woman was permitted to bring that hair of hers aboard without having to fork over some sort of equally exorbitant head-room extension fee.

"People with fat asses have to do it," I thought to myself as I peered across the aisle at a woman plowing through a family-size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos who'd comfortably poured herself (and the powdery dregs of her in-flight snack) into both the window and middle seats, "so why not people with fat-ass hair?"

Believe me, I'm squarely behind the notion of fashion over function, but in cases where a stylish choice, especially a permanent choice like hairstyle, consistently affects those around you in a negative way (thank GOD the two of us didn't meet one-in-front-of-the-other on opening night of the upcoming Clive Owen, Monica Bellucci firearm-filled release) you seriously need to rethink your game plan.

And you seriously need to buy two seats on an airplane.