Dirty Hair Proselytizing — One Angry Waitress

If you ever find yourself cornered with me at a party, it’s probably best that you try not to mention your hair washing regimen unless you want to get sucked into a really long conversation. I have spent years perfecting the level of filth on my head, and if you’ve got a solid half an hour I will tell you how I manage to do it without looking like I’m as dirty as I am—just don’t reach a hand into my hair.

This habit started years ago, when I was working for a bar that forced us to sign an entertainer’s contract with our terms of employment. This meant that, though they were only paying us minimum wage, they could fire us for coming to work without makeup, for gaining a few pounds or having our faces disfigured in a horrible pizza accident.

Meanwhile a few of us heard tell that up in BC the strippers were unionizing. This meant that they could come to work in sweatpants if they wanted to and gain the weight of a second person if they so chose—sure, there was the argument that it might affect their careers, but they’d still be laughing.

A few of us decided that, while our contract stated that we had to look polished, it didn’t say anything about us actually having to be clean. And so began the hair washing competitions. We’d chose a start date and then all of us would try to go as long as we could without washing our hair. I scaled back my showers to every second day, but unfortunately it seemed impossible to push it beyond that—fryer grease really gets into your skin.

My record at the time was six days (though now I’m certain I could go a couple of weeks), and I tied with one of the other girls for second. The winner was at nine days before we suggested that maybe it was time she give it a rest, her bun so shiny under the bar pot lights that your eyes cast a halo around her head as if it were the sun. “I’m just riding the musk,” she explained to all of us.

When asked to elaborate, it was discovered that she had misunderstood the terms of the agreement and hadn’t been showering at all.

In the years since I’ve settled into about every four or five days between hair washes and now work for the sort of guy who wants us not overly made up, dressed conservatively and insists that we not smell bad—basically the sort of man that has daughters and doesn’t pretend otherwise when it comes to his business. But I still laugh over that quiet rebellion of so long ago.

And sometimes when I find myself having a drink in the sort of place that insists on black cocktail dresses and fake tans, it gives me so much pleasure when my waitress steps into the light. And it’s clear that her hair is quite possibly the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen.