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“perseverance” and “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” and all that Little Engine That Could crap? It’s one thing to spout that shit when you got lucky on the second try, or the seventieth.
    But when all you’ve ever done is fail, over and over and over again – well, it gets a little harder to keep going each time. And I have this feeling that one day, I won’t be able to do it anymore. And when that happens, I’ll be sentenced to a lifetime of being a bitter, miserable failure.
    I can’t let that happen.
    But what do I do? I look around the room for inspiration. The restaurant is mostly filled with other students, including a table of frat boys and two tables of kids who look like they probably drove up in Toyotas. Used Toyotas.
    I look down at my salad, still seeking inspiration. And then, staring at the lettuce leaves, I have a brilliant idea. With one hand, I pick up my phone and turn it, taking a panoramic shot of my friends eating their less-expensive meals. No one thinks twice, as I’ve explained that we will be forced to use a lot of static wide shots, but that I will try to get some variety to liven things up. With my other hand, I reach up and casually scratch my head, then I reach for my glass and take a sip of water. Nice, free water.
    At least, that’s what I hope it looks like to my friends, if any of them happen to be watching, which I doubt. The camera is conveniently not getting a shot of me right now. Richard is getting a close-up of Matt’s scribbled-on napkin, so his phone’s camera is also pointing away from me.
    I spear another tomato, lift the fork halfway to my mouth, stop and execute one of my best acting performances ever. And I once told Tiffany that her butt did not look big in spandex yoga pants with “Kiss My” embroidered on the backside in pink sequins.
    “ Ohmygawd!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I wave my fork in the air. “There’s a hair in my salad!”
    One of the frat boys turns around and glares at me. “Would you keep it down? We’re trying to drink away hangovers here.”
    It’s five o’clock now .
    Hoolio comes running over. “Is there, um, a problem?” he asks.
    I shove the fork in his face. “There is a hair in my salad! A hair !”
    “ There’s hair on your head, not to mention other places - it hasn’t killed you yet,” Matt says, shoveling a mouthful of bacon/cheese/chives into his mouth. Ten or twelve more bites and he’ll have excavated the potato.
    Hoolio frowns at the fork. “I’m sorry to see that. Let me get you another salad.”
    “ Oh, and what’s going to be in that one?” I ask loudly. The Toyota table nearest us has stopped eating and is staring at us now. “More hair? I can’t believe a restaurant that charges seven dollars for a salad can’t even serve it without hair! I want to speak to your manager.”
    Five minutes later, Hoolio is bringing a new salad as the manager, a short, squat, balding man, apologizes profusely. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’m not sure how the hair got into your salad, but I can assure you that our kitchen staff has very strict regulations about wearing hairnets.” He looks at Hoolio, and I suddenly get a bad feeling that I’m about to get the poor guy fired, and I really don’t want to do that. Looking like a heartless bitch on my vlog won’t win me fans! Also, I sort of like Hoolio, despite his ridiculously made-up name.
    “ I have a really good idea,” I say, pointing at the manager’s half-bald, half combed-over blonde head. “I think we’ve just solved the mystery of where all your hair is disappearing to.”
    Hoolio starts to snicker, then thinks better of it and coughs into his sleeve.
    “ I was nowhere near your salad,” the manager sputters. Obviously, he’s not going to fire himself. He might, however, do whatever it takes to make a customer happy…
    “ Again, I don’t know how the hair got in your salad, but I see that we’ve prepared a new one, and