As we made our way through security at the airport our carry-on bag was pulled aside for a more thorough inspection. Fair enough - there are so many rules as to what you can and can not take on the plane, and they seem to change every time I fly and they change according to destination and airline, that I mess something up every time. The agent roots through our stuff, eventually opening my toilet kit and extracting Mr. Head. She looks at him for a minute, turning him this way and that, feeling his heft, all with a bemused look on her face.
"What is this?" she asks.
We try to give an abbreviated history of Mr. Head, World Traveler.
"Where did you get it?" is the follow-up question. We don't go into the particulars of stealing him from a cabin we rented in Northern Michigan 25 years ago but give her a sketchy background check. She's openly laughing at this point.
"Can I show my supervisor?" she says.
Absolutely. Mr. Head is a bit of a diva. He loves the attention. We see her talking to her manager, other travelers paying attention to the commotion at this point. Someone asks the security guard about him as she returns him.
"Well, thanks, I'm never going to see that again," she says.
On we travel. First time that Mr. Head caused a ruckus at security.
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