A Cut Above... har har

I start on the floor in exactly one week and one day. That means that I get to take real-life clients, do their hair all fancy-like, and make real-life money. What started as a random afternoon cutting my own hair with kitchen scissors, has turned into a dream come true. (I feel like little cartoon butterflys and hummingbirds should appear out of nowhere to start singing, "one day my prince will come!")

The sad part about it all is that my mentor through this whole thing is moving on to another job. She won't be there for me to freak-the-french-out on my first day. She was the one that told me that it's OK to mix this developer with this brand of color and that a 9.5-1 will turn a yellow, dingy blond into the most glorious shade of blond you've ever seen. I will miss her. I guess every bird has to leave the nest at some point. Let's hope I don't break my wings.

I've considered making this blog all about the random, crazy clients that sit in my chair but thought that might be inappropriate. Plus, I will probably need to vent about.... oh, something at some point. Maybe it'll be a mixture of both.

***

I went to the hair show about a week ago. (A bit delayed.) Remember last year? I'll try to keep my voice from reaching a higher than normal octive but, it was so fun! I did not get my hair cut this year but rather spent most of the day sitting through razor cutting classes, mens hair cutting, and spending time with fabulous people. Since I graduated I don't get to see them nearly enough.
This was such a random moment. I turned around to talk to K.B., grabbed my camera, and yelled, "Hey, everyone - SMILE!"
This one, of course was posed. I was just so glad to have all these faces in one photo. I wish I could put them in my pocket and keep them around at all time for fun-zees.

Crap-tastic

Bridge Man and I have always lived fairly modestly. I've held off buying those 200 dollar boots until I make it big as a stylist to the stars or Bridge Man designs the next Golden Gate Bridge and makes his first million. Be that as it may, we do have our extravagances. For my husband, it is the cable box on the television and for me, it's the Internet. Super-duper fancy, right? Back in the day when I lost my job to the beginning of this fantastic economic crisis, we had a conversation about cutting back expenses. As you can probably guess, my Bridge guy was willing to give up the Internet without the blink of an eyelash and I, the TV. Who needs 80 channels anyway? In the end, no conclusion was made and we kept both. After all, after about a month or so I found another job and all was not lost.

Our poor city is under a monopoly by this cable giant who goes by the name of *Comcrap. Long story short, in a period of about two months or so, we have had to contact said Internet/cable provider for a problem with the service. Each call becomes a 40-50 minute ordeal. First there is the automated voice, of whom I've become very familiar, then there is the hold message that insists how important my call is to them and pleads for me to wait a few more minutes, then, after 35+ minutes I am patched through to a customer service representative who is unfortunately unable to answer my question but can put me through to someone who can.

Then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And then, a second automated voice pipes up and states that an appointment has been made for you for the next business day between the hours of 8am and 4 pm.

This is all well and good except for the small fact that both Bridge Man and I have to work the next business day between the hours of 8am and 4pm.

For the last three weeks or so we have been suffering with patchy cable and a digital box that pops up on the screen with random letters and numbers at will. As for the Internet, it has been totally MIA. I've come to the end of my rope and would like to cancel both services. However, that means sitting on the phone for another 30-40 minutes to complete this simple task. You can see my predicament.

Thus the reason I sit here soaking in the free Wifi that Panera Bread so generously offers poor patrons such as myself. This is the first time I've been on the world wide web since Christmas. Oh, woe is me.For this reason, my dear reader, I cannot guarantee a quick return to this blog. I hope to be back within the week. Bridge Man and I are looking into getting a mobile access card.

P.S. While this is unfortunate, it couldn't have come at a better time. In two weeks I take my state board test to get my license as a cosmetologist. I can use this free time to study like a good little student. Wish me luck!

* This is the name I came up with for this company after the fourth time I sat on the phone, on hold for 35 minutes.

The Salon Nazi

It's amazing how one phone call can ruin ones day. Something as quick as a five... ten... or even a twenty minute conversation out of the entire twenty-four hours that make up a day can effect how the rest of your day goes. Those minutes are a mere fraction of the day and yet what a difference they make. It's amazing how my willingness to take other people's crap dimenishes as the work week progresses. That perky work-voice that starts out the beginning of the week turns into a "Hi. Whatdoyouwant?" by the end of the week.

Normally I am able to put on my fake smile and pretend that no matter how asenine your request is, I am absolutly thrilled to do it for you. No matter how long you keep me on the phone because you're not quite sure when you can spare 15 minutes to get your eyebrows waxed while a line forms at my desk. Or when you call to make an appointment for your mother, daughter, sister, brother, and have no idea what time they could make it into the salon next week. And then I thank you, ever so nicely for wasting the last five minutes of my life.

Here are a few tips for making appointments at a salon or spa:

- Before having the receptionist book an appointment for you, make sure to inform her or him of all services you are looking to receive. Do you think that just because you can get in with your favorite stylist at 3pm tomorrow that everything else you want done will magically work around that time? No, it won't. In order to coordinate your appointments, your receptionist should know that you want a Brazillian in addition to your shampoo, blowdry, flat iron.

- Do not call into the salon and start the conversation off like this, "Hi, I would like to make an appointment." and then wait for your receptionist to respond because I can guarantee you that it will be, "For what?" Sure, I can make an appointment for you, let me just pick a service out of my magic hat over here. Wow, it's your lucky day, you get to come in next Thursday for microdermabrasion. Oh, you wanted a hair cut? I'm sorry, we make appointments based on what the magic hat says.

- DO NOT ask for your receptionist to leave a message for your sylist to call you to come in on their day off. How would you like it if your boss called to ask if you could come on into work on a regularly scheduled day off because Monday just won't work for her or him? You would be none too pleased.

- Do not tell your receptionist your life story while booking an appointment. She or he has five other phone lines flashing red and ten people waiting in line to pay. All they need to know is what you're booking the appointment for, what technician you want to see, and when you want to come in. NEXT!

- Finally, when your receptionist asks, "How can I help you?" do not reply, "I'm beyond help." and then laugh as if that joke has never before been used. Because it has, about fifty-thousand times a day. And it's not funny.

As long as you follow these guidelines, your trip to a salon or spa should be quite relaxing. You won't have to worry that the receptionist you just ticked off will be pouring your diet coke right over your brand new hair-do.

Me Too

I met my twin last night. She's a 54-year-old Jamaican woman with a thick, thick accent. She came into school last night to have her hair done and I happened to be her stylist. Was it fate? Eh, maybe. A coincidence? Quite possibly. Utter insanity? Yes, yes, ten-thousand times, yes. Yes, I realize I don't remotely resemble that of a 54-year-old Jamaican woman. But after talking to her for the three hours it took to color, wash, blow dry, and style her hair, we found that we have enough in common for it to be a little unbelievable.

Our conversation began like those of every stranger that sits in my chair. Is it still cold/raining/sunny outside? Did you just get off work? What do you do for a living? Normally, at that point something comes up to spark a conversation that hopefully lasts throughout the hair process. There's nothing like the awkwardness of not knowing what to say to someone with a head full of foils that have to process for another 30 minutes.

I asked her about her job and her response was polite but short. She works part-time as a teaching assistant. The conversation went on like this for a few minutes. Then something struck a chord and her guard lifted. Her family of two brothers still lives in Jamaica where she grew up. After working for two years as a flight attendant in her twenties she decided to move to the states to go to college and work in elementary education. This part of the conversation was all well and good. Fairly normal. Then she mentioned her mom.

Her mother passed over in November.

I responded with a generic, "I'm so sorry for your loss" response. At this point there isn't much else I can say without losing my composure.

She then went on to tell me about the difficulties she has experienced after such a loss. She had to drastically cut back her work schedule in order to maintain her sanity. Working with young children while grieving the loss of her loved one was simply too much.

The similarities between our stories were so remarkable that I broke down and told her about my mom. How she passed in November and how the situation affected my career status. I told her about my writing and how I use it as a venue to express my feelings about my loss and other things going on in my life.

She too is a writer, a poet. She recited one of her poems about her experience with loss that was published in several local publications. In the poem, palm trees from her home in Jamaica represented her spirit; while a palm tree stands tall and strong on a warm, sunny day, it will bend and break under the stress of something as destructive as the Mother Nature.

I too am being published. It's something I have shared with a select few people because I don't want to jinx it but I chose to share this news with the stranger in my chair. When I told her the authors name her eyes got wide.

Her brother had, just last week, mailed her one of said author's books.

Now, at this point in my life, the idea of fate is a blurry subject for me but our meeting was the closest thing to fate I've experienced. And while hair dye continued to stain her ever greying roots she excitedly proclaimed that our meeting was nothing short of destiny. It was meant to be. No matter how much I'd like to believe that we are more than a big ball of chaos and pollution plummeting through space until our inevitable doom, my faith in destiny/fate has dwindled to confusion. And this meeting did nothing more than increase my confusion.

Who's to say that she and I were destined to meet on that Tuesday night to talk for three hours about our similar life experiences or our shared passion for jewelry making, photography, and Project Runway? If anything, it could have been nothing more than a chance meeting of two genetically polar people on a similar life path.

At the end of the night, after she was properly primped, she left me with a hug and a scrap of paper containing her contact information. It is now up to me. Do I contact her? Was this meeting fate or simply that of two grieving souls desperately seeking solace from someone who can understand?

Pardon me while I gush

I had the most amazing weekend. There was one tiny flaw but it rated a 0.5 on the flaw Richter scale. It was nothing really. So, I'll move on to share the shear amazing-ness of my weekend. I went to the Discover 2008 Hair Show in St. Louis. It's put on every year by State Beauty Supply, a national beauty supply company. The show consists of new hair products, tools, and techniques. There are platform artists that demonstrate the new products, tools, and techniques. And there are great sales on the products, tools, and- well, techniques in my case. But I'll get to that a little later. It's a cosmetologist heaven. And I took full advantage of everything available. I picked up professional products for one-third of the retail price! It. Was. Amazing. I scrounged for free samples all over the place. So much so, I won't have to buy shampoo and conditioner for over a year.

Now that I've officially bored you to tears talking about amazing sales on flat irons and shampoo... (They were amazing people, did I mention that?)

The best, most amazing, most fabulous part of my weekend was that I got to be a hair model for the Farouk Systems platform artists! (The parent company for CHI and BioSilk.) A fellow cosmo girl and I took a chance and got the opportunity to be on stage with Mickey and Bradley as the opening act. It was like a rock-n-roll concert. There were girls in tiny outfits dancing around on the stage with guitars while Mickey and Bradley danced around me, hacking away at my hair. A friend of mine captured the entire thing on her camera and I'm waiting (ever so patiently) for her to upload it so I can share it with you, my bloggie friends. Until then, watch the video I linked above to capture the full extent of what happened to my head. Oh the insanity!

For now, I hope you can be satisfied with a before and after picture.

That's me on the left, looking all blah with my blah hair and my friend K.B. on the right looking fabulous as always.

Check me out people! All, I can say is that this is probably one of the best hair cuts I've ever had. It's so easy to style and I love the way it looks! (Could I be any more smitten over my cut? YES, I COULD!) The video will be posted once I get my anxious little hands on it. Until then, be jealous. Be very jealous*.

And to those people who look at my new do and gasp, "But you're getting married in less than four months!" Please calm down for a sec. Am I not allowed to get married with short hair? Is this a new law I'm not familiar with? I don't think so. The minister isn't going to turn me away at the altar after measuring my hair with a yard stick and finding that my hair is just too short for me to be wed.

*I'm not normally like this, but I seriously cannot stop gushing!!

The Circle of Command

Now pay attention.

I go to cosmetology school.

I work at a salon.

The two are owned by the same people.

This can get confusing. Especially when I tell stories about school, or work.

The same things happen at both places.

Hair cuts

Perm waves

Pedicures

Facials

The chain of command is especially confusing.

One of my instructors at school is a nail technician at work. This means she is my boss at work and kind of a boss-type at school. Not so confusing.

One of the lead receptionists at work is a junior student at school. I am not a lead receptionist at work but am a senior student at school. She tells me how it's done during the day, I tell her how it's done at night.

My boss at work was student with me at the cosmetology school. This made us equals until she became my boss. Now she is my boss at work and training to be an instructor at school. At work, she's in charge. At school, she's not allowed to tell me what to do. This is a little more confusing, no?

Another instructor at school is a frequent client at work. This means I get to serve her bottled water while she waits to get her hair colored during the day and then she critiques the placement of my perm rods at night.

Sometimes I work from 8am to 4pm and then go to school from 5pm to 9pm all in the same day. The roles have to change that quickly. On the most confusing of days I go from being a pee-on at one moment to the big man on campus the next. Fortunately I've gotten used to switching roles appropriately.

The whole thing kind of reminds me of the old folk song, I'm My Own Grandpa. See if you can figure this one out.

Don't Get Snarky With Me

Let me set the mood: It was homecoming season a few weeks ago. The school was crawling with teenage girls all looking to get up-dos, manicures, and pedicures before their big night. I was washing this girls greasy mane when:

“Are you Japanese?”

Her inquiry was out of the blue, yes, but I get these types of questions quite often. “No, I’m not Japanese.”

“Well, you look like you are,” she said with an audible snark in her tone.

So sorry to have disappointed you, my dear, I’ll try harder to please you the next time you ask such an uncouth question.

I went on to politely explain the smorgasbord of ethnicities that run through my veins but she got bored and called someone on her cell phone. What she didn’t realize is that I had control of the water temperature and, even worse for her, I controlled the direction of the water spray. I could have EASILY shot her in the face with a blast of icy, cold water.

A Van Down By The River

For the last two hours of class on Saturday we cosmo girls (and two guys who could probably pass for girls) were lucky enough to sit through the witty repartee of the motivational speaker, Doug Cox. Before the rodeo Santa Clause (no joke) showed up, the girls were thoroughly annoyed that this man would be infringing on the last two hours of an eight-hour makeover. I, on the other hand, was absolutely gleeful that I would get 120 wonderful minutes at the end of the day to sit in the back row and sleep. (65-hour workweeks have helped me to build a staggering amount of sleep debt. I takes it where I gets it, mmmm-k.)

Off the track:
About a year ago, I was waiting for my ride home after a long day of work and class outside the student center and fell asleep on public bench for what had to be about 40 minutes. I woke up to two guys pointing and snickering, most likely at the spot of drool on my chin. Mortifying, yes, but sadly enough it was not the first time.

Back on track:
Unfortunately, I was quickly ushered to a seat in the second row because I showed up late by two lousy minutes. The entire exhibition ended up being very involved. We were standing up, sitting down, hugging, holding hands, and singing “Kum By Ya.” (OK, OK, I made those last few things up.) Nevertheless, audience participation was a requirement and sleep was not an option.

Rodeo Santa talked about how to be successful in your life whether it‘s personally, financially, emotionally, physically, or spiritually. He guaranteed that if we followed his plan, we too would be successful. He did, after all, motivate Donald Trump to be the real estate mogul he is today.

To start off, he made us promise that we would be all ooey-gooey-lovey-dovey toward our selves.
Repeat after me:
I promise myself that I am beautiful. I promise that I will embrace my emotions and I will be an emotional person.

Right about now, I was kind of wishing Chris Farley would bounce into the room and give his rendition of Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker to break up all the unbearable mush.

Next he talked finances and we continued to make promises to ourselves:
Ahem. I promise to make my money work for me. I promise to buy only what I need. And I promise to buy things that accrue value.

The first two promises seem to make sense. The third, however, is not as easy as it may sound. Rodeo Santa used the example of cars, they do not become more valuable, therefore, do not purchase a car.

Do not purchase a car? Do not purchase a car!? Well, my apologies, but a majority of the population does not live in down town NYC and have public transportation available to them round the clock. AND, spending money on public transportation doesn’t do you any good financially either. If you have to take the bus twice a day and bus fare is $2 per trip, that’s $1,460 you could have applied to something else, like – I don’t know – a piece-o-crap car! A car that you would only have to buy once. Taking the bus year after year would be like buying the same $1,460 piece-o-crap every year.

(*Stepping off my soap box*)

More promises:
I promise to use my memories and not be used by them.

This one really resonated for me. My life made a one-eighty almost 3 years ago and I have, and still am letting the events leading up to this turn effect every aspect of my being. Maybe it’s because the ripples from these happenings are still very strong. I often find myself struggling to keep my head above water. I know it is cliché but easier said than done, Mr. Rodeo Santa, easier said than done.

The last promise we made to ourselves:
I promise to be a little better today than I was yesterday.

This is when Rodeo Santa (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, his name is Doug) broke out in a (surprisingly good) rendition of Martin Luther King’s most infamous speech, “I Have A Dream.” He would shout out, “I have a dream!” and the audience of wannabe stylists would repeat the words with enough zeal to mimic that of Dr. King himself. You’d better stand up ladies and gentlemen, because we’re gonna have church in here tonight! I have a dream!

We wrote out our dreams on a 3”x5” note card we creatively titled, “My Dreams.”
- to travel all over the world
- to open my own salon and be successful
- to give back
- to be a good person

We were told that if we hold on to our dream sheet we will be successful. No bones about it, Rodeo Santa promised us success. Let it be known, I still have my dream sheet.

Have I motivated you yet? Can you make these promises to yourself?