Hi, there--so, can I ask you a question? How do you like my hair this way?

See, that was a trick question, for two reasons. One, unless you are the bird who's been stalking me, you can't see me at the moment. Two, even if you could see me, you wouldn't be able to see my hair, as most of it is covered by the Witch Hat. Today, I get to wear the Witch Hat.

The Witch Hat looks like you might expect: black, pointy, and cheaply made in a third-world country. It exists in my office so that anyone who is grouchy can wear it and warn others of his or her bad mood. As you might expect, it was not my idea to institute the Witch Hat Policy, although there are several people I would like to enforce the policy on. Ironically, wishing the Witch Hat on others is grounds for wearing the Witch Hat oneself.

The idea came from a recent customer service training class that I and some impressionable coworkers took. The instructor, who viewed the pupils as her personal stand-up comedy audience, was very enthusiastic about the Witch Hat concept. Or, as she put it, "I was SO INTO THAT...!" with an open-mouthed facial expression resembling extreme shock and disbelief. There were several other things she was SO INTO, including:

• Being given a rose at the dentist's office on Valentine's Day;


• Having her name remembered by the owner of a fish taco stand in "Pismo";


• Receiving a free ass-waxing at a salon for being their 500th customer.

I made up that last item, but it's exactly the kind of thing she would be SO INTO, because it involves her becoming the center of whatever little universe she occupies at the moment. The course I took lasted two days, and at the end of it, all I'd learned was that the instructor will whine, bitch, and stamp her feet if everything doesn't go exactly her way, and that we should behave as if every customer in the world is as big a pill as she is, to prevent ugly scenes. Oh, and the Witch Hat. I learned about that, too.

I got to wear the Witch Hat for being grouchy, which I admittedly am. Another irony of the Witch Hat is that it increases the grouchiness of anyone wearing it. Anyone not a complete and utter Bubbler, I mean. (Bubblers are middle-aged women with blown-dry, sprayed hair who speak in high, nasal voices, frequently in baby-talk, and mince robotically in bejeweled, high-heeled mules. Divorce and years of forced perkiness have instilled in them the ability to switch moods rapidly and strike like a cobra, and they will fuck you up and sic their cats on you.) Bubblers love the Witch Hat. They wear it for fun, so they can talk about their grouchy mood to anyone who passes, because the only time a Bubbler will wear the hat is when she is in a theatrical, fake bad mood. The hat is like a big button reading "Ask Me How My Day is Going!" Real Bubbler bad moods call for drinking binges and slammed doors.

When I imagined the button, I suddenly remembered another button, from my childhood. My parents were part of some pyramid scheme to sell diet powder that could be made into milkshakes, and wore giant yellow buttons reading "ASK ME HOW I'M LOSING WEIGHT!" in red. They encouraged me and my brother to wear these buttons as well, and to suggest to our bus driver, Mrs. Etrie, that she try the program. I was socially retarded enough to wear the button on my down coat, but knew enough about human nature to realize that Mrs. Etrie would not appreciate a nine year old weight counselor.

And... I don't want to think about that portion of my life any more. It's too depressing, and I'm already wearing the Witch Hat.

Star of the day. . .Elphaba