Several months after 9/11 I was in the Atlanta airport. I was “randomly selected” to have my bags extra searched. I guess I looked a little like a terrorist. To add to this luck, the two people assigned to search my bags were women [Insert the obvious stereotypes of women cops here]. My bags were over-stuffed, and the zippers were bulging. I cringed as they took things out of their crammed locations knowing that they would never get it all back in. I thought for sure that I had nothing bad in there, but I didn’t account for culture differences. One lady pulled out my nag champa incense and asked what is was with incredible attitude. I explained that it smelled good, and she confiscated it. She found matches and took them. She found laundry detergent and took it. Our friendship was on the fritz. Then it happened. She pulled out a small ziploc and my heart sunk. It was full of my recently chopped off hair and affectionately labeled “Junior”. She looked at me like I was the filthiest criminal to ever live and with much more attitude and confusion than before she loudly asked, “What is this?” I tried weakly to explain why it was funny to me and my friends. She let me keep it. I didn’t recover my dignity. Micah the Admin