My Hair is Not a Toy.

One of my favorite horror stories actually involves my hair...

Usually at work, I wear a ponytail.  My hair is fairly long, and I actually move around so much that it gets too hot to leave it down for work. 

Leave it alone, asshole.

Doing some cleaning, a, ahem, gentleman comes into the store and starts talking to my manager near where I'm working.

He begins to pet my hair.

Right.

Wrong.

I freeze out of the weirdness of being touched by a stranger and the sheer awkwardness of the situation, hoping he'll stop fairly soon.

Of course he doesn't!  He keeps chatting with my boss, continuing to pet my hair as I try to move away from him.  My oh-so-wonderful manager found the situation to be endearing and slightly amusing, commenting on how nice my hair is while he keeps trying to touch me as I move out of reach.

His reach was almost as if he had Pixar-grade superpowers.

 

 

Snapping at the customer would have cost me my job, cause that's the kind of manager I had.  I just gave up on the task at hand and bailed after a minute and a half of avoiding this guy's reach.

MORAL OF THE STORY:  Don't pet my hair.  As a matter of fact, don't touch your cashiers at all.  Thank you.