Sunday's Revenge

my hair is currently bright vivid almost-fire-engine red. Most of the customers have no problem with it, and as it's neat and tied back neither does my manager.

However, we have the odd person who comes in and STARES. It's not even that unusual a dye job to have, in my opinion. But people still STARE at the bright red bits that fall around my face from my ponytail when I'm running around, grab it, touch it- refuse to be served by me becasue of it.
I'm like- what- bright red hair makes me a baby eater now? Actually, while we're on the subject, I prefer them stirfried.

Anyway, some people are so bemused by anyone not wanting to look exactly the same as them, they assume that person must be evil, on drugs, and a satanist murderer. It seems to happen less in the uk, but it still happens.

Pity them. They probably secretly wish they could, deep within their withered, starved souls.

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.

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