I’m a woman in my thirties with very short hair. The last few years, I’ve gotten super into buzz cuts and it’s been my choice of style since.

A few days ago, I decided my hair was getting too long — and by that, I mean that it’s really what most people consider “short” — so I went to a men’s barbershop that also does women’s hair providing they get a “men’s” style. When I told the guy what I wanted, he proceeded to ask me five times if I was sure that I wanted it buzzed. He even shaved a tiny bit and said, “This is the length it’ll be.”

I told him I was sure, I’d had it shorter, I wanted it buzzed, etc. He finally did it but commented the entire time about how short it would look.

When it was done, he held up the mirror to show me the back and I nodded, smiled, and said I was happy with it. His response?

“It’s too short.”

I get that some people don’t like women with super short hair. But if I’m paying for a service and tell you I’m 100% fine with it, maybe just do your job and do it how I’m paying you to do it?

A new Italian cafe has opened not far from where I live — a fifteen-minute walk — and I decide to check it out by myself for breakfast. When I get there, I see that there aren’t many smaller tables; the ones they do have are filled and there’re only large tables left. It’s the type of place that does table service, and the woman working on the door directs me to a six-seater.

About five minutes later, a family of five comes in. They look around in dismay to notice that there’re hardly any free large tables; they all have one or two people sitting at them like I am. Because the table I’m at is right near the entry, I can hear their conversation as they debate whether they should leave.

I haven’t ordered yet, and I decide that this won’t do; I’m a single person and they’re a family who have come out for a nice breakfast. So, I get up and tell them that they can take my table — where there’s more than enough room for them — and that I’ll find somewhere else. The family looks shocked, and the mother thanks me twice. The staff asks if I will be okay sitting at one of the bench-seat-style tables — one has another lone person at one end, so I would be at the other — and I say yes. I’m sat and served a coffee and rather delicious bruschetta, with the staff alternating between thanking me for moving and apologising for the inconvenience of moving. Before I pay and leave, the woman from the family runs up to me and thanks me, again.

Seriously, do people not do nice things for others anymore? Moving tables as a single person isn’t a huge deal, especially when you’re given a huge one, but the staff and family acted like I’d done this massive thing for them. To me, it seemed like the sensible — and right — thing to do. Why would a single person need a six-seater, anyway?

I have been offered a new full-time role working overnight at another location run by my boss. I have a regular Monday-to-Friday roster, starting at midnight each night. It’s the start of my second week when I arrive at work at 11:30 on Sunday night, only to have the store manager ask me why I am there.

Me: “I’m rostered to start work at midnight.”

Store Manager: “No, you’re not rostered. I had to bring someone else in because you weren’t rostered on tonight.”

Me: “I am on the roster to start at midnight.”

Store Manager: “No, you are rostered to start at midnight Monday night.”

Me: “Can I check on the roster?” 

Store Manager: “No, I can’t get online to access it at the moment.”

I leave, confused because I was told by the franchisee that I would be working Monday to Friday. I check the roster when I get back home and see that I am rostered from 00:00 am to 8:00 am Monday. I call the store manager to let him know.

Store Manager: “Yes, I know you are working from midnight on Monday, but that’s tomorrow; it’s Sunday tonight.”

Me: “But it’s Monday from midnight tonight.”

Store Manager: “No, it’s Sunday night.”

All I could do was call my boss in the morning to ask him to explain to the store manager how days work.

I’m shopping in a supermarket when I see a reduced hot chicken. As I go to grab it, I’m pushed out of the way by a young guy who looks to be eighteen to twenty.

Young Guy: “Haha, stupid b****.”

He walks off laughing with the chicken. I shrug it off when a deli worker calls me over.

Worker: “Hey, I just saw what happened with that guy. I’ve got a fresh batch just out of the oven; I’ll reduce one for you.”

I thanked her and took it, figuring at least it was fresh and hadn’t been sitting for hours. As I was walking home, I was waiting to cross at a set of traffic lights when the young guy from earlier pulled up in a hotted-up car — illegal for someone on their P plates as this guy was — revving his engine.

When the lights changed, he sped around the corner, lost control, and went through a hedge into an empty car park, ripping off his front bumper and seriously damaging his front end. I didn’t hang around to see what happened but couldn’t stop laughing all the way home.

Gotta love Karma.

When my nan was still alive, she had a doctor that she had been going to for many years. He was a nice bloke, friendly, and competent at his job.

His name? Doctor Seewright.

His occupation? Optometrist.

You can’t make this stuff up.