<--- That would be me, after the kind of day I'm about to describe.
I ran into an old friend from high school recently. And everyone knows how that goes. We exchanged “how ya beens” and “what ya up to nowadays.”
My friend, April: “So, Mandie, where you working? You still at GAP?”
Me: “Naw, I quit there two years ago. I’m a shampoo girl at _________ Salon.”
April: “Oh my gosh how cool! I’d love to do that…”
Hu hu hu. Yeah, okay.
Me: “So, where are you working?”
April: “Oh me? I waitressing at __________. It’s so boring. I’d love to have your job.”
Great! You wanna trade? Like right here, right now?
You see, some days my job is…
How should I put this?… Insane.
With extra emphasis on the insane.
Those days go a little something like the following:
Intercepting Crazy-People/Telemarketing Phone Calls
Ring. Ring. Ri-
Me: “________ Salon.”
Crazy Person: “Uh, yeah, let me talk to Keeva.”
Me: “I’m sorry she’s busy with a client. Are you wanting to make an appointment?”
Crazy Person: “No. I need to speak to her.”
Me: “Well, she’s busy. Can I take a message?”
Crazy Person: “No. I need to talk to her now. It’s really important. My name is _______ and if you just tell her, she’ll talk to me.”
Me: “I’m really sorry but she’s busy at the moment. Are you sure it’s not something I can help you with?”
Crazy Person: “Well, are you Keeva? Because I need to move my appointment. It’s very important.”
Me: “Ma’am, I’m her book-keeper. I book all her client’s. I’ve been working here for two years. I can move your appointment.”
Crazy Person: “I’ll just call back later.”
Me: “You’ll be talking to me again later, too.”
Crazy Person: “Uh?!”
Part of my job is making sure that I answer all phone calls so that our stylists can keep working and not have to stop to answer the phone all day.
So, no one. No. One. Gets past me.
And this pisses people off, so bad. They want to talk to the stylist. The manager. The owner.
Not the shampoo girl… Naw, ‘cause lawsy, she ain’t got no brains ‘bout her ‘t all.
(Sorry, I got carried away with my Southern drawl there.)
Ring. Ring. Ri-
Me: “_______ Salon.”
Annoying Telemarketer: “Yes, is this ________ Salon?”
Oh. My. Freaking. Golly. Pete.
Me: “Uh… Yes.”
Annoying Telemarketer: “Are you the owner?”
Annoying Telemarketer: “Can I speak with her?”
Annoying Telemarketer: “Is their a co-owner?”
Annoying (Brain-Dead) Telemarketer: “Why can I not speak with the owner?”
Me: “She’s busy.”
Annoying Telemarketer: “I will just call back later then.”
Me: “Oh, she’ll be busy then, too.”
Annoying Telemarketer: “Who ar-
Click. Slam. Bam!
That would be the sound of me taking my aggression out on the poor helpless phone.
I go through these same type calls, all day long!
Now, I love kids. But for some reason, not the kids who come with their parents to the hair salon.
For example, there’s this one lady who has four LITTLE kids and she always brings them with her when she comes to the salon.
And I don’t know how this became established as the norm or as expected but the shampoo girl has to babysit?!
It’s funny because my boss has a rather large sign posted inside the salon that says, “Parents please watch your children and do not let them play on or with our equipment. Unruly children will be sold as slaves.”
Ha. Ha! I wish.
Well, back to the lady with four kids.
They are always super hyped-up like they each just drank a gallon of Georgia sweet tea.
(Never underestimate the power of that stuff, People.)
So now, I’m stuck trying to handle four heathens while their mother is getting her hair cut.
One little girl goes straight for the stationary blow dryers.
No big deal, I think to myself. She won’t hurt the dryer.
Another kid goes for the magazine rack and starts yanking them all to the floor.
No big deal, I think once again, I’ll just pick them up once they leave.
Another kid goes for the shampoo bowls and plops down in one of the chairs and leans back like he’s getting his hair washed.
And I think, he’s not hurting anything.
And last but not least, the fourth gremlin is on his way towards the waxing station.
I run as fast as I can to get to the other side of the salon before he--
The kid had already stuck his hand down in the searing hot wax bowl and was now screaming bloody murder as he flung his wax dripping hand back out.
All over me.
His mother started freaking out over at the cutting station and Keeva wants to know what’s going on.
So, now I’m having to clean up the wax covered trouble-maker and get some burn aloe for his hand.
And now my shirt and apron are covered with wax and the floor is sticky too.
But before I can get to cleaning it up I hear something.
Snap! Crackle! Pop!
I know that sound.
Instinctively, I look over towards the stationary blow dryers and the little girl is trying to pull the dryer down over her head, but she’s too short and now she was trying to yank it down and break it!
I hurry towards her. “No. No. No.”
She peeks her head out from under the strained dryer head and looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “What?”
What?! Is this kid sassing me?
“You can’t pull it down like that, hun.” I grit my teeth. I try to smile and look all innocent and sweet and unalarming.
I see that demonic look in her eyes.
She sees right through me.
“Yes, I can!” She shouts. “This is my space ship! And I have to get to Dablueon.”
Well, unfortunately I don’t speak four year old.
“This is a hair dryer. Not a space ship.” Should also just go ahead and tell her there’s no Santa Clause, Easter Bunny, or Tooth Fairy?
Narrowing her eyes, she points her little finger at me, “You’re a liar!”
Rip. Rip. Rip. Riiiiiiiiiiiiip.
When I turn around, the other kid is now not just pulling every magazine and hair book off the rack, but ripping them to pieces.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” I snatch the magazine he’s holding out of his hand.
And hear it comes… Wait for it. Wait for it.
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream louder.
My ears start ringing and now the mother is upset again.
I relinquish the magazine back to the kid so he can finish demolishing it.
That’s when I see the oldest kid, the one who had been sitting at the shampoo bowls acting all harmless and crap.
Now, he’s turning the knobs and once again, I’m not fast enough to prevent a calamity.
I felt the wave of cold water rush over me before I see it. The kid was wielding the sprayer like a water gun and was soaking me!
When my brain kicked in, I wrestled the sprayer from him and managed to get the water turned off, before we all drowned.
By this time, the mother is finished and is paying Keeva.
And I’m standing in a puddle of water, with my hair and clothes soaked, dripping like a wet rat.
I’m sure I looked like one.
I scrub toilets. Sinks. Empty trash. Sweep until my arms feel like they are going to fall off.
I scrub mirrors and windows. I scrub hundreds of brushes and combs.
I wash towels and fold towels and fold more towels.
I run out for cigarettes. Dr Peppers. Salads. Hamburgers. Shakes.
I make deposits. Returns. And pay bills.
And I’m suppose to do all this within a ten minute time period.
So I run around town running errands, honking my horn in traffic and acting like a crazy person to get back to work in time and with commissioned errand completed.
Oh! And The Old Ladies
At the salon we have the regulars who come in once a week for a shampoo and set. These are older women who no longer know-how to, or are just too lazy to do their own hair.
But fine with me. More money for the salon.
But they’re so mean! They never fail to mention to me when I look like I’ve gained a few pounds or look a little tired.
And they love to tell me how skanky my tattoo is.
They also love to tell me I’m going to hell because I wear pants.
I’d love to tell them they probably are too seeing as how they cut, perm, and color their hair…
But I don’t. For the sake of keeping my J.O.B.
Oh, and they don’t tip.
Well, I lied. Sometimes this one woman will dig out 50 cents for me.
Oh! And The Rich People
These ladies waltz in the salon with their Louis V’s in tow, dressed in Juicy sweats. And wearing Armani sunglasses. And talking on their iPhones and driving their Lexis and Mercedes.
Now I’d really have no problem with these people if they didn’t treat me like I was a slave, or a second-class citizen.
They’ve flung their jackets and purses on me like I’m a butler!!!
Has anyone ever seen the movie The Devil Wears Prada?
Well, you know how Meryl Streep is always flinging her stuff on Ann Hathaway?
Yeah, well you sort of get the picture then.
Eat hair all day long. It’s inevitable. It’s in the air and floats around all day with the hair dryers going.
Breathe toxic fumes that are supposedly killing the Ozone layer.
I just love my job some days.
But hey, at least I’ve got one.
Maybe Obama won’t try taking it from me, too.
Lived Through by Mandie Described at 1:31 PM