“Where do you get your hair done?” the waiter asked as he picked up a lock of my hair and twirled it around his finger.
“Gene Juarez,” I answered, a little confused. Why was this strange man touching my hair?
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I could do a much better job for less money. You should let me do your hair. I’d fix it.”
As the waiter walked off I had to wonder if I had just been insulted. But since I was at the restaurant to celebrate my sister-in-law’s birthday, I decided to ignore the odd little conversation I had just had.
Only the waiter would not let me. He returned for round two about ten minutes later.
“Excuse me,” the waiter said, tapping me on the shoulder. “I just realized that I might have been rather insulting before. I just meant that I hate to see my girls spend all that money on their hair when they don’t need to.”
I nodded, confused by the “my girls” comment. Whatever did he mean?
He moved away and went about his business, so I turned my attention back to the birthday party.
It was a full thirty minutes before round three occurred.
“Take this,” the waiter said as he stuck a business card in front of my face and scared the wits out of me. “You should come to me and let me do your hair for you.”
I took the card.
“I really want to play with your hair.”
We left about ten minutes later.
For whatever reason, people talk to me. I know this and I’m accustomed to it. For some unfathomable reason people tell me things. I once sat down in the audience to wait for my child’s concert to begin, and within just a few minutes the person beside me had told me about her impending divorce and custody battle.
But I found the whole hair thing odd. I’m not really sure what I should think about it.