The other day, I was in the bathroom at a nondescript Southern California business park, washing my hands, when the woman washing her hands next to me complimented me on my hair. This actually happens to me a lot because my hair is fucking adorbs.
C’mon… look at how cute I am. Fucking precious.
Anyway, I told her the funny, and true, anecdote I usually tell strangers when they tell me my hair is cute, which is that I was doing some volunteer work with teenagers when I first started cutting my hair like this, and as soon as I walked in with my cute new hair, one of the kids was all “I saw that haircut at the skate park 10 times already.” Then, if there’s time I usually also tell them that this is the same kid who said “Oh my God, what did you do to your face, you look so pretty!” when I wore eye-shadow one day.
Then she said that I should work for her company, which seemed like a strange response. But I’m not in any position to argue. So I followed her to her office, where she introduced me to a woman who does what she thought I would be so good at: working with kids for $15 an hour. I almost choked. Not to sound ungrateful. I mean, I did just tell her a story that involved me working with kids for free, so I guess $15 an hour would seem like a step up. But that’s ludicrous. And the job requires a bachelor’s degree. In and Out burger pays more, and I have a feeling none of the potatoes you fry will be seeking posttraumatic counseling when you fuck up.
Editor’s note: I know this ends abruptly. I fell asleep. It was all I could do last night to erase the extra letters I’d typed when my hand fell onto the phone as I slept.