So, this morning, I went to get a haircut at a well known and respectable establishment (Mina’s Studio in Chapel Hill- I went there to have my cooch waxed last year). So, I made this appointment on Monday, and since it was a last minute situation, the likely-hood of me getting their #1 was stylist was a statistical improbability.
So, at 9am sharp (and by sharp, I mean the bitch was 5 minutes late), this haggard-looking tranny-mess comes out and calls my name. She was not ugly, though she was young and had the look of a hard life…platinum hair, tattoos, no bra, heavy makeup. She complained instantly that she was not in top form, she had a tooth removed on Monday (and this, after a brief discussion, I learned was not a wisdom tooth…but a permanent tooth. You all know my feelings about this).
She wound that black cape around my neck and then began accidentally dropping scissors and hair clips from her little stylist fanny pack. We made small talk and she told me that her mom was the owner of the studio. Suddenly it became clear to me why I could get an appointment with her so easily.
As she was cutting away, the receptionist was delivering the schedules to all the stylist. I looked to the left- booked…I looked to the right-booked….I looked in front…three. Three appointments. Hmmm, I thought. Interesting. My stomach twisted a little, maybe it was the coffee, maybe it was the cold Mexican leftovers I had for breakfast (I love cold leftovers), but it felt…wrong. Something was brewing.
As she finished, my hair was being flown in all different directions with no semblance of styling or forethought, she brandished her comb like a child with a paintbrush, unaware of what she was creating. She finished with a tease of my bangs and stood, with pride, asking me what I thought. I told her “well..I kind of look like Javier Bardem from No Country for Old Men?”(look here for that image) She had no idea what I was talking about. I have never wanted an iPhone more in my entire life, to be able to deliver information to this petty hair wench instantly, to show her the error of her ways. She eventually feathered it out and it looked decent (although not 1/2 as good was the cut I had in Montreal). I went to the register, angered that I would have to pay the $75 for this cut as advertised on the website. The bill came. It was $48. I thought….yeah…that is still way too much, but it made sense that it was less…since she was the hair devil. I did not tip her. She gave me her card which I passive-aggressively threw in the trash when her back was turned away (the receptionist saw and smiled…knowingly).
So, my friends, it is with a heavy heart that when I step into my interview(s) this afternoon, the people who greet me are going to be surprised that I am not wielding a high pressure air gun.