My first airport security pat-down was bound to happen at Boston Logan. Already they've tried to take away my jar of marshmallow fluff (they did not succeed) and changed my gates so that I had to go through security twice.
Well, on this fateful trip, the line for security was pretty short and I was happy. Instead of going through the metal detector, I went through some new scanner and I really didn't think much about it. However, this shorter line funneled into...a line for pat-downs.
I've never been frisked before. Surprising, right? I mean, with all the petty crimes I commit, it's a miracle it hadn't happened yet (ha. ha.) Anyway, I anxiously waited behind another woman who was getting your standard pat-down--arms out, feet apart, etc., etc--for my turn. Finally, I step up and wait for the (female) TSA agent to give me some sort of instructions. After about a minute of just standing there, she said:
"I have to pat down your hair."
She proceeded to do just that, gingerly cupping my messy bun and patting the top of my head a few times. After deciding that I wasn't concealing any C-4 in my hair, I was free to leave.
And that is the story of my first pat-down.