To the frisker.

To the frisker.

I wonder what I do. What signals I give off. I mean, this time, I even took the clip out of my hair and risked the look of my school nickname Crystal Tips as the locks sprung out from my head in excitement at their freedom. I took my shoes off. I even took my leather beaded necklace off. I was clean.

I handed over my passport. Then I approach it. I’m confident as I walk through towards it. Airport scanner. You’re mine this time.

And I did it. I got through. No beep. Joy.

Joy short lived.

I *still* get pulled over.

She’s female of course. I find this quite ironic. Men frisk men, women frisk women. It’s a heterosexual thing i’m guessing. She’s about my age, hair in a pony tail, a little bit weathered, looks like she may smoke the odd cigarette. Her navy pressed trousers are perfect along with her pale blue shirt tucked in neatly.

She stares at me.

Arms up please, she says. With authority.

I’m nervous.

And then I want to giggle.

All along my arms to the tips of my fingers she gently pats and then, I know what’s coming, she skims across my top and moves swiftly to my legs. Really, is it necessary to raise here hands all the way up there? She reaches to the top of my jeans. I think she’s surprised that they are high waisted. I do love my Top Shop high waists. Then she puts her hands *inside* the high waisted waist. Really. Is this in her job description?? What can you hide between your belly button and the top of your Asda red seamless pants.

Then, it’s over.

Thank you, she says.

Thank you, I say. Smiling.

Next time I might just leave my hair clip in 🙂


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