French Hairs I Have Eaten

I have three consecutive meals in Sarlat with tiny black hairs lodged somewhere on the food. I have a weird sense of shame about it, as if I’ve somehow caused my meals to be garnished in this way. I find myself wanting to make the hair go away secretly, without alerting my travel companion to its presence. Will she think it’s gross that I don’t send my plate back to the kitchen? I am too frightened of French servers. Each time, I eat around the hair instead: I slide it under a sliver of gristle, I cover it with mashed potatoes. After the second hair, it does feel sort of personal, even though it’s a different restaurant. After the third time, I stop looking at my food before I eat it. It’s too upsetting, and I’m too hungry. Besides, if I don’t look, I won’t see any problems. This has worked well for me in some ways in life, poorly in others.