I’ve never been abducted by aliens. I’ve never had to kick a heroin addiction. I’ve never been dragged by a pick-up truck. But, now that I’ve clocked 31 hours at a Brooklyn salon, I feel like I’ve been through some shit myself.
Being stone-cold broke can make a person do funny things. On one particularly desperate afternoon - through a haze of mis-guided and uncharacteristically optimistic perceptions - it seemed a good idea to accept a job working the front desk of a local salon.
I, apparently, was blind to the Stepford Wives behind the counter because I eagerly smiled my way through the interview and into a job. I, apparently, seem also to have been blind to the first red flag: when the heavily make-uped interviewer asked me what my birthday was after noting I did not complete that field on the application. Maybe I was distracted by the length of her platinum hair extensions or the smell of her flowery perfume. I’m not sure, but I may have even passed out for a quick minute. “I’ll be happy to tell you my birthday but you should know it’s illegal to ask that on an interview.” “But, why?” my future manager asked with a batting of her fake eyelashes. “Well, that’s ageism.” “Oh”, she said. “It’s not ageism. It’s just that I only like to hire college aged girls.”
Okay. Now that we’ve cleared that up.
Anyway, since joining the cast of the Real Housewives of Twat County, I have learned many things about myself. Like, for example, my personal appearance is abhorrent. Turns out, I am barely suitable to walk out in public. Yes, my new manager offered some “feedback” after my first shift of work. Silly me! I thought feedback at work would be, ya know, about work. No. I need to “at least do something” about the way I look. (Insert face-cringing). A full face of make-up isn’t necessary but for Christ’s sake it IS the beauty industry. And my hair!!! If you look closely you could see some OH MY GOD GRAY. Usually the salon will wait a couple of months before offering a free haircut to a new employee, In my case, I am in such a bad way they were willing to give me a “total makeover” ASAP. The way she put it, women and children were running from the salon in horror when they caught a glimpse of me - the au naturale elephant man behind the desk.
If I were two decades younger this might have chipped away at my self esteem. But, as evidenced by grays, I am too old to even muster up the energy. I have learned that trying to suck some sort of life lesson from this black hole of fucked-up-ness (the salon) or their 50 year old “I wish-I-were-still-20” leader (the manager) whose #1 concerns seem to be whether her mascara clumped or if her boyfriend really did get a “happy ending” at his last massage (not kidding) is about as ridiculous as me wearing make-up.
Sometimes the universe isn’t trying to teach you anything. Sometimes the universe is just punking you.