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.