The Yellow Hats
Well, it finally happened. My enthusiasm for working at the Owl's Nest cafe has been steadily dwindling for weeks, and on Friday it was dealt a lethal blow in the form of hideous mandatory hats. Piss-yellow and made of flimsy mesh, the hats and their blue-shirt counterparts made us look like a circus troupe behind the counter. There is much agitation and general grumbling about the new dress code. We look like idiots.
On the bright side of this fashion debacle, though, is the informal contest between Elyse Bagley and myself. Between now and Thursday's morning shift, we are expected to decorate our hats with such garish adorment that management will be forced to reconsider the ordinance. Puffy paint, girl scout patches, buttons and pins: my hat will be a tribute to anyone in food services who has ever had to don pieces of flair, a subversive little fuck-you to the Owl's Nest.
At least, that's how I see it playing out.
I'm at Elliot's house right now, working at the desktop below his bunk bed while he reads at my feet. It's a tight squeeze in here; easy to brush off at first but very romantic when it grows on you.
On the bright side of this fashion debacle, though, is the informal contest between Elyse Bagley and myself. Between now and Thursday's morning shift, we are expected to decorate our hats with such garish adorment that management will be forced to reconsider the ordinance. Puffy paint, girl scout patches, buttons and pins: my hat will be a tribute to anyone in food services who has ever had to don pieces of flair, a subversive little fuck-you to the Owl's Nest.
At least, that's how I see it playing out.
I'm at Elliot's house right now, working at the desktop below his bunk bed while he reads at my feet. It's a tight squeeze in here; easy to brush off at first but very romantic when it grows on you.