I didn't get into the girl thing until late. I was deep into my fifties when I started hiring people to re-tread my hands and feet and style my hair on more than a semi-annual basis. Then, as I began to sprout undesired growths in unwanted places, I graduated to waxing, and I've been hooked on being female ever since. Something about pouring hot melted candle snizzle on various body parts that makes me feel so very feminine.
Most of my rehab work for the last
few years has been done in the spa at my healthclub. But my club
closed after 25 years and the two people who loaded up their 401k's at
my expense went to two different places, where they work as independent
Being an independent
contractor just means I don't call their
places of work, I call THEM directly on their cell phones to make
This usually means that instead of talking to some gumsmacking
receptionist type who tells me when someone is available, I deal with
the people who actually do the work themselves. I don't like this
forced intimacy. Doing my hair and nails is one thing. Talking to me on
the phone is another. I like a little distance between me and them when
making appointments. So I don't have to hear what's going on in their
lives and they don't ask about mine.
The conversation starts with
me stating my time preference. Why bother. I should just ask them when they want me
to come in because they're never available when I am. But they
are available any other time, especially when I'm not. And so it
goes. They try to get me to change my mind and we finally agree on
something. Have I mentioned their accents? Charming and delightful until you're trying to understand each other.
Unfortunately, after making all these arrangements, they usually call me back to change the
time to the one I originally wanted in the first place. Except that
I've already changed all my plans to get to the appointment we agreed
upon at the time they wanted. Assuming I understood any of what they were saying at all. And vice versa.
In a nutshell, this sucks.
On top of all the phone calls, I
bought some fancy schmancy hair products from the salon that my hair
lady said she'd keep just to use on me.
When I showed up for my wash and set the other day, two things happened. First
of all my stylist wasn't there. She'd gone to visit a sick relative
and assumed I would wait for her. Yeah, I've got nothing but time.
To mollify me, she called me twice from
wherever she was to say she'd be right there. She was only two minutes
away. That's right up there with the check's in the mail, I don't have
herpes, and you can't get pregnant if I pull out.
While I was waiting for her, tick
tock tick tock, she suggested that I get my hair shampooed. So I
told the shampoo girl that I wanted to use the shampoo products that I
had purchased from them for use on my hair and my hair alone at the
salon. I wanted my special shampoo, my special conditioner and some
other stuff that was so special I didn't even know what it did, but it
was called something like rejuvenating hydrolyzing do-dah.
They couldn't find it. So I said I would wait for my hair stylist to find it when she arrived.
She was half an hour late. Of
course, if I'd already had my hair washed it would have dried by the
time she arrived. But I had waited so she could use my special shampoo
products. That I paid for. That make my hair so beeyoutifull that no
one will notice any of the imperfections I have, which are too numerous
to list in this small space. But wrinkles are the tip of the iceberg.
She couldn't find anything anywhere.
Earlier, while I was waiting for my
stylist to arrive, my younger daughter called my cell to chat. I
went outdoors to enjoy the nice weather and avoid big ears, while she
caught me up on her life and I waited for the person who was roostering
up mine. If you think I meant rooster, you would be wrong. I
groused about my displeasure over the missing shampoo, my delayed
appointment, and how I didn't like having to deal directly with the
person who does my hair.
Just as I finished my tirade
something made me turn around and I saw that one of the people who
works in the salon was outside smoking a cigarette and could hear
everything I said. Oh, good, now I wouldn't have to explain my
disappointment in a nice way. She would be sure to convey how
pissed off I was later.
My hair got washed with an inferior product I'm sure. But it looks
fine, dammit. My plan was to take all those shampoo products with
me, but I have to wait now for them to be found or replaced. Then
I'll take them. And never go back. Except that I know my stylist will
call and ask why I haven't been coming in. And I'll have
to deal with explaining myself to her instead of just walking away from
way I would if I were going to Elizabeth Arden or Sassoon or Oprah's
This whole thing is just one more reason why I hate being a woman. It takes so freaking much of my time.