I went to breakfast with my coworkers. This photo is posed because she's used to accommodating my requests for photo shoots.
I love the movie When Harry Met Sally and of course as you may know, they order a lot of food in that movie. Going against what seems to be the popular choice, my favorite food-ordering scene from that movie is this one because of the waitress. But I know what Sally means: I just want it the way I want it.
I ordered toast at breakfast this morning and hold on before you roll your eyes. If you've ordered toast in a Midwestern restaurant at any time in the last few years, then you may know there is a wave of bad toasting going around. I blame Canada, but I'm blaming Canada for everything this year due to the lovely weather we're having.
I asked the waitress to be sure the toast was actually toasted. Brown. Crispy, but not burnt. She assured me, as has pretty much every waitress I have met, that
1. she understood what I was saying
2. other people have complained about it
3. she will explain it to the cook
4. she doesn't blame me for asking
Does this look toasted to you? Really toasted as in, "I think I'll have some toast this morning."
She put this breakfast sandwich on the table in front of me and then she hightailed it right on over to another table. I picked up a piece of bread and brandished it to Grande, the blonde girl. "Does this look toasted? It's warm, sort of warm, but it is not, in fact, toasted." I tore it in half to further illustrate my point.
It has a brown tinge. That's because it was waved in front of a Bunsen burner, maybe. But it is not from an actual toaster.
She's so good to me. She knew it was coming and she murmured affirmative noises. Then the waitress came back and asked if everything was ok. I pointed out that my toast wasn't quite toasted. Do you know what she said?
"I thought the same thing."
What did NOT happen, my dear coworkers, was me getting up in her business in my polite way and saying, "BUT YOU BROUGHT IT OUT TO ME ANYWAY, DIDN'T YOU?"
No. What happened is that she asked if I wanted her to take it back.
What did NOT happen was my reply, "WHY? SO THE COOK COULD SPIT ON IT BEFORE YOU BROUGHT IT BACK?"
No. What happened is that I said it was fine and I would eat it.
As we stood at the cash register and perhaps she was trying to distract me from mentioning toast again because she's pretty good at that technique, Grande asked what I had done to my hair.
"What did you do to your hair this morning?" she asked. We fussed a little and then we departed.
I drove all the way to work before I took my hat off to look at my hair. Ladies, you know what it means when someone says, "What did you do to your hair this morning?" But did I look at my hair? No. I could incubate tiny animals in my hair, so I take this in stride. A little too much.
I drove to work. I parked the car and for some reason I took off my hat and looked in the rear view mirror.
What had I done to my hair? I wasn't sure and this photo doesn't do it justice, but I put the car back in gear and drove home to wash it and start all over again. For anyone who might read this and knew me in high school: it took 20 minutes from walking in the door to walking out the door. So there.
Because my faithful reader Rose cares, she asked what I decided about my hair. Please brace yourself:
I sat down in the chair and I told her everything that was wrong and she pointed out various curly-hair related issues with my desires and so in the end, I just asked her to shape it back up and get rid of the split ends. All that. For this.