There's a Hair in my Fare--or Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow?



I found a hair in my noodles the other day. I'm not pointing fingers, because, hell, we all shed. And as far as bodily detritus goes, hair's certainly not the worst. I mean, it's not fingernail. And for further perspective, I once toured restaurants with a health inspector who didn't even flinch at dead cockroaches, because--she pointed out--they're dead, which means the restaurant has the proper roach-killing systems in place. Hurray, I guess?

Looking around the restaurant where I found the hair, I could identify the long-maned servers from whom the offending strand likely exuviated. They looked like a well-kempt cast of Bumble & Bumblers, so that hair was probably every bit as clean as the fork that I was so blithely licking. Blech.

In the end, I abandoned my hairy noodles, leaving about 80 percent of the dish on the table. Frankly, I could stand to do that at more meals, so it was a BMI-beneficial event, at least.

When the server asked if anything was wrong with my food, I really wanted to say--at the top of my lungs--"YES THERE WAS A DAMN HAIR TANGLED UP IN MY NOODLES--CAN'T Y'ALL WEAR NETS OR SOMETHING? GROSS! GROSS! GROSS!" But I said nothing. For one thing, I don't really like looking at people in hair nets.

What would you have done?

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