I was asked to write about a time when I was most embarrassed. The weirdest part about answering this question is that a particular embarrassing moment doesn’t come to mind, but rather a particular job.
“Tell me about your most embarrassing moment,” she said with a smile on her face. Her long, dark brown hair was pulled into a ponytail. Not just any ponytail, though. Her roots were voluminous, and her bangs swooped across her forehead. This ponytail was one that said, “Yeah, I’m forced to wear my hair like this, but I’m going to look good while doing it.”
That voluptuous, stylish ponytail gave me hope. Hope that a serving job, which would inevitably force my hair to be pulled back into a ponytail every time I worked, might be manageable.
As I quickly offered up a memory of mistakenly walking into the men’s restroom at Walmart, she laughed and proceeded with the rest of the obligatory interview questions. At the end of it all, she offered me a job.
“That was easy,” I thought as I walked to my car.
A few days later, I came back for orientation. After listening to a bunch of talk about what working there would be like, I was graced with a uniform – the uniform. Little did I know that the pile of solid black poly-blend that I cradled in my arms would evoke endless tears, frustration and pure discontent in the days to come.
Shoes must be non-slip. They must have leather uppers and be polished at all times.
Pants must be a solid black poly blend. A crease down the middle of each pant leg is not required, but preferred.
Shirt must be a solid black, button-down shirt.
Tie (yes, a tie) must be solid black, tied in a Full Windsor knot.
Apron must be heavily starched with a crease down the center.
Hair must be pulled back into a bun or a braid with no unnatural colors.
There you have it – the uniform of all uniforms. What power it bestowed. It stripped away all feelings of confidence, erased any hint of sex appeal and actually inhibited the ability to walk. If you think I’m exaggerating, I’m not. I’m just not.
The first time I put it on, I barely recognized the girl in the mirror. “But I can do this,” I told myself. “It’s only temporary.”
That pep talk ran through my head as I walked through the revolving door for the first of my six days of training. Upbeat, elevator-like jazz music filled the restaurant, the soundtrack to its perfectly clean, strictly corporate, wannabe-ritzy façade.
My pep talk ran through my head the following day when I was told that I have to address each customer as ma’am, miss, sir, ladies or gentlemen, and NEVER as “guys,” because it’s rude and unprofessional.
And again when I wasn’t allowed to ask people at the table who ordered what as I stood there holding scalding plates of food. Oh, no, we don’t “tableside auction.” I had to read the seat number that corresponded with each plate of food on the order ticket, remember those numbers, then silently and confidently place the plates in front of the correct people. Except that never happened like it was supposed to, and I was given far more questioning stares than I was looks of approval as I continually sat the wrong plates in front of people.
My pep talk was the only thing that held back tears after I was pulled to the back room because the bun in my hair wasn’t perfect enough, as miss voluminous ponytail woman proceeded to style it in a hideous French braid.
Then, I hit my breaking point. And I quit.
I quit before I actually made it through training, because why was I letting myself be miserable over a job that meant nothing to me or my future? (Don’t let me fool you, though. It was my mom who helped me arrive at that bold decision.)
So I called in a few hours before I was supposed to go in for my last day of training and I quit, just like that. Later that afternoon, I walked through the revolving door for the final time. As the frantic jazz music played, I watched the servers scurry across the floor in their slicked-back braids and floor length aprons. I listened as they recited their lines to each table, ending every exchange in an undeservingly polite way. As I watched, my arms cradling that God-forsaken pile of solid black poly-blend, I smiled. I smiled because that wasn’t me. It never would be. It never could be. And that’s okay.
So when someone asks me about my most embarrassing moment, I’m taken back to the interview for undoubtedly the worst job I’ll have ever had, even if it was only for five days. In those five days, I learned that slicked-back hair, an unsightly uniform, sickeningly polite language and too many rules to count didn’t make me happy.
I’m clumsy, and I call people guys, regardless of their gender, and I have a high level of enthusiasm about fashion and my hair. But most importantly, I’m a writer, not a waitress.
Although, being a waitress did give me something to write about.
Emmy Runyon 