Last night at dinner my seven-year-old son found a hair in his food. Cue disgust, laughter, barf sounds echoed around the table. Except the hair was mine. I’d just made dinner in a mad weeknight rush and forgotten to wear my hair net. Well, actually, I don’t ever wear a hair net, though there are some in these parts who wouldn’t mind if I did.
Now, I’m not thrilled to find hair in my food in a restaurant, but at home, it hardly seems to warrant the kind of revulsion it elicited around the family table.
Just wait until I start serving insects.




