You remember Mallard don’t you?  If you don’t want to read the Mallard chronicles (and I don’t blame you if you don’t, that title ‘Mallard chronicles’ doesn’t scream “MUST READ”), basically Mallard was this stranger who was working at the same school as me (who was wearing a mallard on her shirt, hence the nickname) who randomly came up to me and told me she didn’t like my hair. AT ALL. (The “at all” was actually something she said). She looked at me like I had just showered in the liquid found at the bottom of a dumpster.  And then told me that I needed to get it fixed, that she would even be willing to fix it. Let it be known that I didn’t know anything was even wrong with my hair. (And there wasn’t anything wrong with my hair- trust me- I asked around). Then, a few days later, while I was working at the school again she found me and wanted to talk. Because the last talk had gone so well, I acted like a mature adult and dodged her by hiding in a classroom.

I hadn’t seen her since my crafty dodge, but then today happened.

While walking into my local Starbucks, I hear someone scream my name. It’s Mallard in the parking lot. I look for a place to run and briefly consider hiding behind a trash can, but since it’s just the two of us in the parking lot and she’s already called my name, I assume that would be a poor idea. She starts out…

Mallard: You know, I’ve been thinking more about your hair…

Me: Okay, that’s okay. We don’t need to talk about it.

Mallard: No, I just want to explain everything that I don’t like and tell you-

Me: Uh, that’s okay. Really, I just-

Mallard: (at the top of her lungs in the Starbucks parking lot) LET ME APOLOGIZE GODDAMMIT!

Me: Oh. Okay.

And then there’s this brief pause. Because I’m thinking “well, she’s asked for a chance to apologize, so I’m assuming she will use this time to actually say sorry.” Instead Mallard follows me inside the Starbucks and we find ourselves at the end of a very long line.

Mallard: I just don’t think I was clear about what I don’t like.

Me: Oh wow, that’s not what I thought you were going to say. Well, that’s okay because it’s my hair so you don’t really have to like it. It’s fine though, really. Let’s just stop talking about it.

Mallard: It’s more of the cut that I’m not sure about. And actually, the color. I think you need more highlights. I just want you to know, I can fix it.

Me: Okay. That’s okay. But thanks.

At this point, I notice that the bored line of people who are waiting to order have now turned. And are all staring at my hair. Suddenly, nothing is more fascinating in the Starbucks than my hair. I can feel every glance scrutinizing every hair on my head.

Mallard: I just don’t think I’ve made it clear what I don’t like. I just want you to know that I can fix this and that I really do think that telling you about your hair troubles was an inappropriate thing to do at work.

Me: It’s almost as inappropriate as what you are doing now.

Then, dear readers I turned around and ignored her. And then spent the next 7 minutes (I timed it) in line knowing that she was standing directly behind me looking at my hair. If that doesn’t seem hellish to you, I dare you to try it. Find someone who (for reasons you will NEVER understand) takes an immediate dislike to one part of your appearance, and force yourself to stand in front of them knowing that they are going to be mentally thinking of how they could better explain what a horrible mess you are.

It’s enough to make you want to switch from Starbucks to vodka in one quick swoop. On the plus side though, Starbucks got my order right- and then NEVER get my order right.

I declare today a win for me and non-confrontational, anti-whipped cream lovers everywhere.