Sunny With the Chance of Guilt

A summer breeze has finally picked up around here. Thank God. I don't know about you, but the first actually warm day of the year has always brought me a sense of renewal, or cleansing perhaps. It's like the first good shower you take after being away at camp. It's pure therapy. Unfortunately, those kind summer winds have forced me to take a look-see at my post-hibernation body. I need to go back in the cave it seems.
And so my dearest readers (namely the three that I'm aware of), I begin my deep dive into denial and depression that is this wonderful time of the year. It is that lovely time of year that I must face my fat-ass and remove my crumb-covered hand from that jar we call temptation. It is time that I must remove myself from that oh-so comfortable ass-print I have been perfecting these last several wintery months, and drag my rather wiggly edifice out to the garage where my bike has been collecting dust. If my bicycle were alive at this moment, it'd be giving me the finger.
However, I digress. The point I'm getting at, is that I need to find the drive that, at one point in my life, allowed me to get to a reasonable weight. Yes, I am only a mere eight pounds away from my lowest weight. But that eight pounds of lazy flab, ok ten pounds on a bad day, has been taunting me since Thanksgiving; and frankly I've had enough! I'm ready to get back at it! But that would require me to remove myself from my sedetary lifestyle. Shit.
Well, there's no time like right now. So what if I downed a whole gallon of ice cream in less than 24 hours? It's was fat-free and no sugar added! Bonus!!!

Savvy?!

I have always thought myself more technically inclined. I have always been able to "save the day", as it were, by switching the television to the DVD setting for my parents. I have often come to the aid of my poor father; after watching him struggle for a good twenty minutes with the DVR, as he so desperately tries to recieve the basketball game he had so successfully set to record earlier that afternoon. It is not until he has begun to sweat, removed his glasses, and fervently rubs his temples while muttering a stream of profanity that even the most vulgur reality show would be forced to bleep out, that I interveen. I have always taken great joy in taking ballet-like strides over to the fraught parent and with a sigh, grab the forlorn object (most usually a remote of some sort), and with a flit of the fingers, I fix the problem. The problem is usually my parents; there is nothing wrong with the television.
I have, on one occasion, been tracked down at a party. I remember rushing to the phone, thinking the absolute worse that my imagination could muster. Picturing my mother in a body-cast, I tentatively picked up the receiver and meekly uttered, "Hello?"
"It's Mom. We've been trying to get ahold of you for nearly an hour!"
"Oh my God, what's wrong?" I answer, my voice raising a decibel with every word.
"Your dad and I have been trying to watch this dvd on Gordon Lightfoot for the past hour and we can't get the player to work!"
The breath escapes from my lungs like air out of a whoopee cushion. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No I'm not kidding you! All we wanted to do is sit down and enjoy our meal. Your dad's been doing yard-work all day and all that he asks is for a little sit-down time and a beer. Is that so much to ask?"
I had a distinct feeling this conversation was veering off course. I heaved another sigh, speaking over the continued saga of what has been my parents' day. "Mom! Mom? Are you looking at the television?"
"For God's sake, yes I'm looking at the t.v.!"
"Ok, turn the channel to 3 and then press the button on the DVD player that says 'Power'."
"Oh will you look at that."

And so it goes. My life has been a series of technilogical feats. It's really amazing if you think about it. For an entire lifetime, I have been led to believe that I was an undiscovered genius. But alas, it was just the ridiculous lack of technilogical sense that humored me until this point in my life. For it is now that the machine is smarter than the girl. I have just purchased a new cell phone. Apparently, my old cell phone was an ameba in comparision with the device before me. I have purchased a Blackberry, ladies and gentlemen. And it is obvious who is more intelligent. My phone has a test to practice texting. I am taking a typing class for my phone. Doesn't that seem a bit ridiculous? I think so! So I apologize profusely if your upcoming texts from me seem more like mutterings from an illiderate than the musings of an intellect. I'm still learning how to turn the damn thing off. The thing keeps chirping and I think it's laughing at me.

Walk-Ins Welcome, Please Have Pscyhiatric Report on Hand

The most uncomfortable experiences of my life have resulted from taking in a walk-in client. I completely understand the reason we, as hairstylists, take in this nomadic clan of the unkempt. Not everyone goes to the same hairstylist all the time. They go where they are. It's the convienence factor. It is the hairstylist's job to lasso in the walk-in client and hope and pray that our work is appreciated enough that the walk-in will turn into a request, and finally into permanent clientele. It's a cycle, don't you see? Unfortunately, when you are dealing with a random smattering of people, you tend to come across some clinkers.

My least favorite of the walk-ins is the mother who thinks that the salon is a fast-food establishment. She has about, I'd say, ten children in tow; all of whom have monstrous amounts of hair, and equally monstrous personalities. She comes up to the counter and stares you down with cold eyes. You grasp your shears in self defense, eyeing the motley crew of children, all drooling and clinging to their mother's coat. They resemble the cast of characters from Lord of the Flies. She cranes her neck over the desk and tries to read our books upside down. Excuse me, but there is a reason the desk is so high; it is when we see people like her coming, so we can lie and say we are all booked.

Slowly, you approach the minute woman. She is always short and petit, so she can camoflage into her surrounding brood. "Can I help you?" you ask, trying to crack a helpful smile.

She shoots a cold glare at you, so hard and sharp that you flinch and your skin actually hurts. "How long?" she spats.

Now, maybe it's just my smart-ass personality, but I never want to give a direct answer to this question. Especially when I can tell the woman is a bitch. Obviously, this woman has entered a salon, a hair-cutting establishment. I know exactly what she wants. But I really do loathe the question, "How long?" How long for what? How long until Satan hires your little minions to do his bidding? I give the kids a glance; not long by the looks of it.

Of course, what she wants is a haircut for each of her offspring. And of course, every stylist is free to do it. The drooling clan of the gentically impaired take a step onto the salon floor, and all hell breaks loose. It is impossible for the childrens' feet to ignore the tempting pedal that pumps our chairs. They pump them up and down, up and down. I give the mother a pleading look, as I try to tell little Tommy that the chairs are not toys and should not be used in a such a manner. My smile seems some-what unconvincing beings that my eyes are about to pop out of my face and I am starting to foam at the mouth. They continue to swivel and swirl, refusing to remain in a still position. Is it just me or do the youth of this generation have no fear? Do they not feel pain? For if it was me, as the child, purposefully ignoring the requests of an in-charge adult, my armpits would have no feeling. My mother would have grasped me under the arms so swiftly and tight, that all circulation to extremeties would be cut off so alarmingly, my arms would theoretically fall off.

The mother obviously is blind and/or deaf. She makes no effort to displine her children. She just sits in the only available saln-chair left, a crumpled mess, head in hand, obviously looking back on her life with great contempt. We finally wrangle the unwiley crew and get them seated in our chairs. We have slapped mussels on their faces, in the form of lollipops. Our shears are poised by the little precious angels' head when the mother finally seems to awake from her stupor. "How much is this gonna cost?" she demands, obviously expecting something in the 50 cent range.

"Children's cuts are $16.00." I reply. I wish the rate was higher.

"Aw hellllllllll no!" She leaps from the chair and swiftly nabs each child from their position. "Ain't no way I'm gonna pay 16 dollars for a haircut!"

In a flurry of fuzz and sucker wrappers, the group is gone from our sight. We can hear the mother kavetching all the way to the other side of the mall. We clean up in silence, secretly relieved that we didn't have to finish the service, but still verbally bitching about their behavior.

You'd think that this was just an isolated incident. But, unfortunately, it is not. There will be others just like them in the future, and many others that make me just as uncomfortable and uneasy. It comes with the job. But you know, for every horrible client I get, there are more than equal amout of people that are just wonderful human beings who make my job absolutely worth it.