Salty Berets

Yesterday, as part of my celebration of being free from graduate school, I went shopping and to dinner with a long lost friend from undergrad.

Act I: The Beret

We went to the new Banana Republic store in Soho, where a lot was going on. First off, they were treating it like a party... greeting you like an old friend, running around with trays of "champagne" (LIES), etc. Also they're too good for paper bags there; instead you get a Banana Soho canvas tote. I still can't sort out my feelings about that situation.

So, the store is set up as a looooong hallway with little vignettes, or dioramas to either side as you proceed to the end/the fitting rooms. Keep in mind that it is mayhem. I dive into a section featuring sailor-y sweaters and lots of hats. I like to try on hats: it's fun, it's easy and no one really expects you to purchase a hat. And I usually look humorously dead awful, which is also fun for my shopping companion. Win-win. I happened upon a grey knit beret and thought to myself, "well fancy that, it's just like your childhood of awkwardness calling," and threw it on.

Out of NOWHERE a saleswoman swoops out of hell and screams at me: "You're WEARING it WRONG!" Seriously? Seriously.

She rips it out of my hands, off my head, starts running her granny mauve manicured hands through my hair, "styling" me I suppose. Here's a note for everyone: I don't like strangers to touch me. And I don't even like people I know to touch my hair all that often. So I'm standing there frozen in shock with the most absurd expression on my face, as is my friend in the background. Having to watch the whole thing go down in the mirror was the most upsetting and ridiculous feeling. There I was, literally rooted to the spot, making awkward mirror-eye-contact with my horrified self as this crazed saleswoman--I'll say it-- brutally assaulted me for an epic moment. People stared.

"You're wearing it wrong. This is how I wear it."

Really Banana Republic? Really?


Act II: The Salt

We proceeded to one of my favorite Soho dinner stops, Mexican Radio. I was feeling, shall we say "liberated," and decided that it was definitely a margarita night... long story short, I ended up with a huge chunk of salt in my eye. I don't even know how. And we were sitting just adjoining this nice family, with a nice toddler... and I had a Delaware sized chunk of salt in my eye. And it hurt. And it was stupid. And sometimes, one needs to exclaim things. Meanwhile, this little kid was in love with us and kept turning around to interact... never have I seen so many children in Mexican Radio, it was very discombobulating. Never have I gotten that much salt in my eye under the eye of a small child who probably you shouldn't be shouting profanities in front of. Yes.

I decided to soothe myself by ordering a new margarita.