Dates from Hell, Ep.2 “Flossing is important.”

If you think this is about dating a dentist, you’re wrong.

Look, I have nothing against informal dates. But with all the options Barcelona has to offer… a kebab? Really?

Things we could have done:
– Grab a poke bowl on the beach.
– Have a drink literally anywhere within a five-kilometer radius.
– Point at a random tapas bar.

What we did instead:
Kebab.

But wait. It gets worse.

When I arrived, he was already waiting there. And before you ask — I was on time; he was early. The kind of early that comes with a side of passive-aggressive watch-checking.

He greeted me with a weird distance-hug, like the ghost of a very fat man was wedged between us.

I assumed the dingy corner kebab place was just the meeting point. You know, a casual “let’s meet here and then go somewhere nice.”

Nope.

He turned around and walked inside.

It wasn’t even a sit-down kebab — no plates, no chairs, not even cutlery. Just a counter, some mystery meat on a spit, and an unlabelled bottle of “white sauce” that probably violated several international treaties.

But hunger is an intoxicant. And I was in one of those moods where I thought, Maybe this is one of those hidden gem places? Maybe it’s delicious? Maybe I’m being a snob?

Spoiler: I was not being a snob.

He ordered immediately, with the urgency of someone emerging from a 40-day fast. Unsure what else to do, I ordered the same.

We sat on the curb outside, because apparently that’s where romance goes to die, and he inhaled his entire kebab in three bites.

I counted.

Then—because the universe has a sense of humor—he leaned toward me.

My first thought: Please don’t kiss me with a mouth full of kebab.

My second: Can this date get any worse?

It could!

“I’ve got something stuck in my teeth,” he said.

There are a lot of appropriate ways to follow up this statement.
“Go wash your mouth.”
“Use a napkin.”
“Why are you telling me this?”

What you do not do is what he did next.

He reached toward my head, took a lock of my hair — my actual hair — and wrapped it around his finger like he was about to propose, except instead of a ring he had a chunk of onion wedged between his molars…

…and he flossed.

With. My. Hair.

Time stopped. Birds paused mid-flight. The kebab guy inside probably felt a disturbance in the Force.

I didn’t react immediately because my brain was buffering. You know when your computer freezes and the little spinning wheel pops up? That was me. Just… waiting for the software update that would allow me to process the fact that this man had used my head as dental equipment.

Finally, words arrived.

“What—what are you doing?!” I sputtered, jerking away like I’d been electrocuted.

He blinked at me. Confused. As if I were the unreasonable one.

“Relax, it’s just hair,” he said.

“NOT FOR TEETH!“ I snapped. “Hair is not floss-adjacent! Hair is not a hygiene product! Hair is—oh my God, I can’t believe I have to explain this!”

He laughed.

A hearty, relaxed, post-kebab laugh. As if this were a meet-cute and not a biohazard.

“You’re overreacting,” he said, shrugging. “It’s not a big deal.”

Not. A. Big. Deal.

I stood up so fast I nearly launched myself into traffic. I told him this was insane, unacceptable, a crime against humanity—honestly, I don’t even remember exactly what I said because I was too busy trying not to set myself on fire to erase the memory.

He shrugged and went back to eating his fries.

Eating.

As if he hadn’t just performed the world’s most unhygienic magic trick.

I walked home with as much dignity as one can muster when one’s hair smells faintly of garlic sauce and semi-digested onion.

I washed it three times.

I considered cutting it off.

I considered cutting him into small pieces, Hannibal Lecter-style, but unfortunately the Geneva Convention has rules about that sort of thing.

The moral of the story?

Flossing is important.

Just not with someone else’s body parts.

And I won’t be going near a kebab—or that man—ever again.