THE GIRL THING

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 contractors.

Being an independent contractor just means I don't call their places of work, I call THEM directly on their cell phones to make appointments. 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 I'm 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 it the way I would if I were going to Elizabeth Arden or Sassoon or Oprah's guy.

This whole thing is just one more reason why I hate being a woman.  It takes so freaking much of my time.