Normally, I work 9-2 Mon-Sat. They needed me to do dishes today (Sunday), so i came in as the back-up from 12-3.
I come in early, and my dishing partner isn't there (flat tire), so I go ahead early and Manager J gives me (literally) a gold star (sticker).
Yesterday, I dyed most of the top layer of my hair fuschia, which fades into my natural dark brown.
All's well, say hi to the kids I normally don't work with.
Decide to go bus a table. Church folk (and you can spot them miles away) stop what they're doing to turn and look at me.
No big, this is a small town and people wonder.
Skip ahead an hour:
I walk behind the buffet to give out some clean dishes, a man grabbing his pizza stops to stare anf harrumph at me with one of those beady looks (in a cowboy hat). Another older woman (60+) wouldn't touch the plates I just set down, and grabbed a salad one instead.
Bussing a table, a little boy leans over to look at me and his mother pulls him away with this ghastly face.
Skip ahead to close:
Last people to walk out just go O_0 at me when I tell have a nice day.
How is this revenge?
We all know how bad Sunday can be for resteraunt workers. If not by experience, then by fellow tales here.
In this tiny town, I will become infamous, and my fuschia-purple hair will frighten the onlookers who dare approach my buffet table. I will rule them purple cloaks and matching boots.
There will be opposition in the form of complaints to management, maybe, but the mere glimpse of color has thrown forth a wave over the bosses.
Why?
They love my head.
I come in early, and my dishing partner isn't there (flat tire), so I go ahead early and Manager J gives me (literally) a gold star (sticker).
Yesterday, I dyed most of the top layer of my hair fuschia, which fades into my natural dark brown.
All's well, say hi to the kids I normally don't work with.
Decide to go bus a table. Church folk (and you can spot them miles away) stop what they're doing to turn and look at me.
No big, this is a small town and people wonder.
Skip ahead an hour:
I walk behind the buffet to give out some clean dishes, a man grabbing his pizza stops to stare anf harrumph at me with one of those beady looks (in a cowboy hat). Another older woman (60+) wouldn't touch the plates I just set down, and grabbed a salad one instead.
Bussing a table, a little boy leans over to look at me and his mother pulls him away with this ghastly face.
Skip ahead to close:
Last people to walk out just go O_0 at me when I tell have a nice day.
How is this revenge?
We all know how bad Sunday can be for resteraunt workers. If not by experience, then by fellow tales here.
In this tiny town, I will become infamous, and my fuschia-purple hair will frighten the onlookers who dare approach my buffet table. I will rule them purple cloaks and matching boots.
There will be opposition in the form of complaints to management, maybe, but the mere glimpse of color has thrown forth a wave over the bosses.
Why?
They love my head.
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