They Make Shampoos For That

Ooooh, he's going to kill me when he reads this.

So, tonight at work two of my friends got into a little friendly battle with each other. Since I use nicknames here rather than give away true identities (who knew working in a restaurant could be so James Bond?), I'll call them Waif and Dragon-master (I'm calling him that to try to earn a way back into his good graces...).

Dragon-master got Waif with some ice. Dragon-Master taunted Waif throughout the night. Dragon-master played mind games because that is what he lives for.

Waif got fed up and came to me. We talked. I commiserated. She mentioned a plan to get him back that consisted of dumping one tiny packet of sugar down his back. Guaranteed itch for the rest of the night. It was a good idea.

I had a better one. Like an idiot, I opened my mouth. (Why do I call myself an idiot for that? Because Dragon-master is one of my best friends. Because honestly, in any battle at work, I'm on his side first. Because he knows where I live.)

The next thing I know, I'm talking to Dragon-Master when Waif comes up behind him and tries to sprinkle cinnamon on his hair. Yes, this is my idea. I didn't actually think she'd do it, but she did. I thought it would be fitting retribution without being truly messy or horrible or hard to clean up.

One problem.

The cinnamon didn't come out. Dragon-master, unaware of his grim fate, kept talking to me. Waif became impatient and SHOOK that can of cinnamon over his head.

The little plastic door holding back the "scoop-up-some-cinnamon-in-a-spoon" side of the can FLEW OPEN. Cinnamon rained down upon Dragon-master's head, piling up a good three inches before the excess slid down his neck, puddling across his shoulders and down his spine.

I have a confession to make. I'm laughing so hard RIGHT NOW, I can hardly type. I laughed harder then.

Dragon-master didn't know what hit him. Really. Apparently the overwhelming scent of cinnamon did not provide a clue. (I know, I know...comments like that are going to keep me in hot water.)

He demanded to know what was on his head. We told him. He did the natural thing, the thing that WOULD HAVE WORKED, had Waif not dumped half a can on his head, and tried to brush it off.

Apparently, cinnamon does not brush. It clings.

He stood there, all wounded dignity and exasperated male pride while small drifts of orange cinnamon shifted around his hair but remained largely in place.

He brushed harder and succeeded in turning his entire head orange.

I laughed so hard I cried. My cheeks hurt. My ribs ached.

He finally stuck his head in a sink and scrubbed.

The rest of the night, everytime he walked past me I was treated to a pleasant blast of cinnamon. Unfortunately, he couldn't rinse out his shirt so his shoulders bore suspicious-looking orange flakes.

Waif, who turned out to be a smack-talker of the first order, couldn't resist calling out to him that "They make shampoos for that, you know."

He has declared war. On Waif. On me. Why me? Because it was my idea originally, even though I didn't actually DO anything? Because I laughed a little? (Well okay, a lot but heck, it was totally entertaining.)

Retribution is coming. It will take a while because, as I mentioned earlier, Dragon-master lives for mind games.

I'd like to make it up to him. Perhaps baking some cinnamon rolls for him would do the trick.

Dragon-master has requested that I amend this post to include the first step in his payback to Waif.

Later that evening, right before we left work, Waif was sitting, facing me, getting ready to go out with her boyfriend. Dragon-master walked up behind her and pretended to have something in his hands to pour over her. Waif (did I mention she likes to smack-talk???), couldn't resist taunting him. Dragon-master ripped open a packet of honey and poured it on her head and down her back.

Life in my restaurant is never dull.