"Hey, watch this!" I looked up from my nachos, and my friend T. was pulling a long, black-rooted, bleach-lightened strand of hair from her head. My confusion grew as she stuffed it into the chili atop her half-gnawed burger.
"My Mom showed me how to do this." She summoned our server. "Ummm...this is really gross? But there's a hair in my food. I don't think I should have to pay."
The woman sighed. Though I'd never witnessed anything like this before, an eighteen-year-old girl running a scam was hardly a new menu item for her. She grabbed the plate and returned several minutes later, plunking it back on the table. "No one in the kitchen has hair that...blonde color," she huffed, staring pointedly into T.'s eyes - and then at her scalp.
T. shrugged. We paid the full bill. I never went to a restaurant with her again.
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