Hair Pie

I keep telling you people there is a reason why I’m thin.

I guess there’s no delicate way to put this, so I’ll just come out and say it: six times in the past two weeks I’ve gone out to eat with friends and found hairs in my food. In fact, it happened twice yesterday, and that’s not counting the dog hair that was in my morning single-serving of Mott’s Apple Sauce (yes, I am four years old).

Ironic, because I went out to eat with Jack and Ken last night, and one topic of conversation was how shitty the food has been for me the last several times we have eaten together. There was the Whole Foods burrito snafu (don’t get me started, it deserves its own entry), the follow-up Whole Foods buffet snafu (in an attempt to avoid another sub-par burrito experience I tried the buffet–and I hate buffets, they’re gross and unsanitary–which was even worse), the hairs in my salad at California Pizza Kitchen, and more.

As I was recanting these stories, my shoddily constructed Desert Moon burrito was looking like a gunshot soldier, its viscera spilling out onto my plate. No fear, I decided I could just use my fork to enjoy the burrito innards (with a healthy dollop of habanero sauce). Until I found a short, nappy black hair wrapped around a few pieces of rice and a hunk of shredded chicken. “Okay,” I said. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

To quell my anger, we decided to get ice cream from the place next door. It’s one of those parlors where they mix everything together in front of you. I joked around with the female server about the hair in my burrito, because I’d noticed her eating with her boyfriend across the room from us a few minutes earlier. She laughed, and made some comment about tofu being unhealthy due to certain preparation methods, but I wasn’t paying attention because I was I watching the rubber bands connecting her top and bottom braces stretch each time her mouth formed a different shape.

I was so happy with my ice cream. You could have told me my dog had died and I would’ve finished the serving before sensing any hint of sadness. Until, of course, half-way through, I noticed an unnatural force preventing me from lifting the next spoonful to my mouth. It was another hair, this one about the size of my forearm, glistening and speckled with moist droplets of vanilla ice cream.

I nearly vomited. I screamed obscenities while Ken and Jack made some jokes about bad karma. I don’t recall exactly what was said because I’ve pushed it out of my memory. I distinctly remember lowering the window, hurling the remainder of the ice cream at a passing car, and hearing it smack the car broadside with a horrific “thud.”

Generally speaking, my germaphobia is not unusual. I won’t touch anything in a public restroom without a paper towel, I don’t eat at buffets, and I make fake social plans to get out of seeing a friend who has recently had a stomach virus. After this recent series of events, I feel like I just should just stop eating out (insert cunnilingus-related joke). Maybe I should learn to cook, or eat Thomas’ whole wheat bagels for breakfast and dinner.