Imagine the critic's surprise when none other than the restaurant's matriarch, bedecked in a cerulean and azure apron, burst from the kitchen and told this pinstriped send-up of the whole snobby epicurean world exactly what he could do with the "watery" aioli, before pouring the whole mess on his head.
Unknowingly, some time in the past, the insects and my scalp reached a gentlemen's agreement wherein I would become the rather pediculous host to this hardly symbiotic relationship; verily this agreement was bonded some time ago, for the lice were great enough in number to mesmerize any volunteer who offered to pick through my head with a stick and comb.
"'Tis a moot point, lass; yer young yet, and far too naive to go out into the world, barely stipulate against the ways in which it'll try to broadside ya at every turn...'s too soon for ya to admix with the wealthier bein's of society; they'd rip ye apart."
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