After which I am unable to respond

I have another good salon story for you. A random lady, we'll call her Crazy Hair McGee, has been randomly popping into the salon asking for a stylist named Chris. We do not have a stylist name Chris. Maybe this story will read a little better in script format...

***
[Enter Crazy Hair McGee, eyes blazing, hair a fright]

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: [With intensity] I need to see Chris.

RECEPTIONIST: [Long Pause] Um, we don't have anyone here named Chris. Perhaps you are looking for our other location on the West side of town?

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris is at your other location? Well call her. Tell her to get over here!

RECEPTIONIST: I don't know that they have someone over there named Chris and if they do, she wouldn't be able to come to this location tonight. We can call over there-

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris has to do my hair tonight! Chris always does my hair.

RECEPTIONIST: I can call over there to set up an appointment for you.

CRAZY HAIR MCGEE: Chris is not here?
***

I will spare you the rest of this redundant conversation. It went on like this for another 10 minutes. In the end, we would find out that Chris is a stylist who worked at the salon over four years ago, which would explain Crazy Hair McGee's unkempt style.

The next week, during a particularly busy moment in the salon, Crazy Hair McGee calls and is put on hold while we assist others. She promptly hangs up and calls right back only to be put back on hold. It's a first come, first serve policy so she basically kept putting herself at the end of the line. She hangs up and calls back for a third time. This time I am the unfortunate receptionist to answer the phone. We are still busy and I ask if she is able to hold for a moment. She tells me no, she is not able to hold because she has been put on hold the before and had to hang up each time because she "got the diarrhea."

Bob help me.

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.

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.

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.

Twenty-Something; The Learning Years

This is something that I've been hearing a lot about lately. Supposedly, when I turn 30 I will look back on the last decade of my life and say, "Hot dog! Glad that's over. Now I can move on to the living years of my life." I will have made all of my mistakes. I will have learned all there will be to learn. The time will have finally come to pass down my wisdom to the next generation and hope that they are able to learn in order to become successful thirty-somethings.

For those of you who don't know, I'm closer to thirty than I care to admit. Not close enough to panic quite yet, but close enough for me to pop a few Tum*s to ease the discomfort. (Just to clear the air: I do not believe that 30 is old. I'm talking mile-markers here people.) Sometimes I can't help but wonder if I've met my learning quota per my years as a twenty-something. Or if I've surpassed those in my age bracket and therefore qualify as an honorary thirty-something. (How fabulous would that be?)

I may be a twenty-something with some experiences under my belt, but a buffoon I am not. I am able to admit that I do not have knowledge beyond my years. (Well, I may have some knowledge.) But, generally speaking I'm right where I should be.

I think.

Who am I kidding. I have no idea. I could go back and forth on this all day long.

Case in point:
While a twenty-something, I have learned...

• How much of a nincompoop I was in my teen years.
• That while young and unattached (not including Bridge Man) and have the opportunity to reinvent myself. I am not defined by my degree or my career.
• I'm not too young to have gray hair.

While a twenty-something, I have failed to learn...

• That I don't have to know all of the answers right now. One mistake won't damage me for life.
• How to politely dispose of all the negative people in my life.
• How much of a nincompoop I really am.

Here's hoping that I am able to learn these things, and maybe put them to use so I can successfully graduate into my thirties without making a complete fool of myself. I still have a few good years as a twenty-something left.

If Wishes were MacBooks

This is not the first time that I've thought to myself, dang, I wish I had a MacBook so I could _________. Fill in that blank with whatever you want. There are so many useful functions that a Mac provides that my poor little Toshiba just can't muster. Sure, she does a good job. But there are those times I find myself moving the mouse to the top left side of the screen to close a window and sadly realize that I have a PC and therefore must move the mouse to the top right side of the window in order to close. Poor, unfortunate me.

My longing for a new MacBook has been induced by my attempt at a job hunt today. The entire process of seeking employment is an exhausting task.

Find company.

Research.

Write cover letter with enough panache to schmooze bigwigs at said company.

Proof read resume for eleventy-billionth time.

Send resume and cover letter.

Shampoo.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I have scoured newspapers, job search websites, Craigslist, etc. I’ve even considered freelance but then I think to myself, a freelance what? My writing background is in advertising. Advertising professors teach you grammar and writing techniques and then tell you to throw them out the window. They are no longer of any use. From what I understand, those rules come in handy when submitting a manuscript to a publisher or an article to an editor. Now, I’m not saying that I have no grasp on proper writing techniques. I do. What I’m saying is that I have no formal journalistic training. My training extends no further than what they taught in Advanced Comp during my senior year of high school. In the introductory paragraph, you tell your reader what you’re going to talk about. In the body paragraphs, you proceed to tell them. And in the conclusion, you remind your readers what you just told them. If I turned something like that into, say, the editor of the New York Times, I would be laughed all the way back to Illinois.

So what kind of job can I get with a degree in advertising?

No, I’m really asking. Any advice?

I’ve worked on accounts. I’ve done the ad rep thing. I’ve done PR. Everything short of becoming a sales person for an insurance company. No offense to those insurance sales people out there in internet land, it’s just not my cup of Lipton’s.

This is where everything comes full circle. There are no advertising jobs where I live. I’ve been saying this for months and months and months. And if I had a MacBook I could prove it. I went to the classified section of local newspaper’s website, clicked on the link to Advertising/Press Release jobs and what should I see…

“Sorry, we did not find results for that search.”

I wish I had a MacBook so I could use the screen capture function. I would put that screen captured picture up along with this post to give you a better, more visual idea of what I’ve been rambling on about.

Teeny Violins and a Theme

How did everyone like the first installment of Bridge Man’s ramblings? I asked him to write something because 1)his political rants rival those of Keith Olbermann and 2)I’m trying to avoid any more Debbie Downer type blogs. And so, for this reason, I will avoid telling you about how I got “let go” from my job at the ad agency. I won't talk about how freaking pathetic the job hunt has been going. I’ll refrain from mentioning the awfulness that was the entire month of November. And I refuse to complain about the fact that I can’t seem to sleep for more than three hours at a time. I just won't do it.

If you listen closely, you can hear a teeny, tiny violin in the background playing a sad, sad song just for me.

What have I been doing with all of my new found, jobless free time? Well, my short attention span leads me to abandon the monotony that is job hunting after a few short hours. But, let no one say that I’m sitting on my bootay, couch potato style.

This was Mohawk Day.

I promise, Bridge Man does not always look like that. I think some of the mousse and hair spray seeped into his head giving him a temporary Rob Zombie persona. (I was going to link a picture of Mr. Zombie here but, dang, he is seriously a scary looking fella. You may Google him if you choose but don't say I didn't warn you.)

This was Cigar Day.

This all started when J and I were watching an episode of Friends. You know, the one where Joey and Chandler want to be just like Richard so Chandler grows a moustache and Joey starts smoking cigars. I believe our conversation went something like this:

Mmmmm, cigars smells so good!

Oh, I know.

I wonder if they taste as good as they smell.

Where do you even buy cigars?

Anywhere. The gas station, the grocery store, the liquor store.

Let's go get some.

(Laughter followed by a long silence.)

Are you serious?

I'm betting you can guess where this is going. That's right ladies and gentlemen, at the age of 25, for the first time in my life, I smoked a cigar. And what did I learn? Cigars do NOT taste as good as they smell. Not even the flavored ones. We were (hacking and coughing) giggling so much it was ridiculous. We then made a mad dash to the bathroom to brush and gargle away the awful dirt taste the vanilla flavored stogies left behind.

(You'll have to pardon my awful hair, I thought I'd give it a break after the beating it took on Mohawk Day.)

The last theme day I have for your enjoyment was Cooking Day. Now when I say "cooking," this does not mean gourmet. Oh, no. This simply means that I cook actual food on that day. My recipe of choice, Black Bean Wraps.

They tasted like wonderful wrapped up beanie goodness. And they're healthy too. This was the final presentation:

Notice how there is nothing else on the plate? My menus rarely include side dishes. I always forget to plan that part of the meal. So I usually end up opening up some canned fruit and slopping it onto a plate. Bon appetite!

The plan is to continue to make up theme days to occupy my time. Who needs a job, health insurance, or a retirement plan anyway?

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?

Blog By Numbers

1. The job hunt has begun in full force this last week. Big Boss Man made sure to reiterate in a particularly nerve-wracking meeting this week that she just can’t muster up the time for me, “If I’m spending my time with you, then my work is not getting done.” (This is where I begin banging my head against the wall and mumbling something about a stapler.) Anyway, I’ve updated my resume, references, and cover letter and the hunt is officially on!

2. Bridge Man and I are going to St. Louis this weekend for a trip to the zoo. I’m excited because it will be the first time I’ve ever been to a zoo, believe it or not. I’m also a little nervous because I tend to get a little PETA around caged animals. By the end of the weekend the Show Me State might be taken over by a literal zoo of newly freed animals.

3. My little brother (who just happens to be 6’4 and over 200lbs) has recently become a quasi celebrity in my little hometown. It’s a little surreal for me. The high school football season has commenced and suddenly everyone knows his name. Old men who’ve followed redbird football since 1776 will stop him at the local grocery store to tell him exactly how to perfect his screen pass. He’s only a freshman, people!


4. My mom finally got a new oncologist. Finally! I haven't taken the time to blog about this in the past because it will take me at least two full weeks and many mojitos to completely detail the saga. Maybe this will come in a future post or maybe I’ll give you bits and pieces here and there. We’ll see. Let’s just say, her first oncologist kept her well in the dark about her treatments and what was going on inside her body. Her new doc took the time to answer all of her questions and, so far, seems very helpful. This, I like.

5. I went to a wedding this last weekend and what do you know...

One of these things is just like everything else. The black and white flowery dresses must have been on sale that week.

Where I am right now

Last December I graduated from college with major in Advertising and Integrated Marketing Communications and a double minor in Psychology and Sociology. I thought I had set myself for life. During the time it took for me to get my BA, something in the world of business changed. Now you need nothing less than a Masters degree to make any money in this life. In high school, it was pounded into our heads that we would never get a decent job without a degree and I believed them.

First I went to a community college and paid the tuition out of my own pocket. (I’m pretty proud of that.) As I got closer to finishing my Associates degree I began planning the rest of my educational career. I had everything set up. I was going to start at SIUC that fall. All of my classes transferred over with ease. I had all of my classes lined up. I knew where I was going to live. I had a list of everything I was going to need to take with me. I did not, however, have the means to pay for any of it. I applied for financial aid but was not eligible, not because my parents made too much money but because they didn’t make enough. Sounds backwards, huh? I won’t go into the whole “woe is me” drama of it all but let’s just say; make sure you file your taxes every year. I applied for every scholarship known to man. (Surprisingly, they don’t give engineering scholarships to communications majors. Go figure.) And I tried to apply for loans on my own but loan companies don’t want to give money to 22-year-old college students with no credit and making $5.15 per hour.

At the very last minute, in a moment of weakness, I asked for help from a family member, my aunt T who had recently completed college. I wanted to know if there was anything I was overlooking, if there was secret money somewhere that only post-grads knew about. I figured she had been through the rigmarole and might be able to help me out. And help she did. Ever so graciously, she co-signed on a loan for me and I went to school that year.

The next year, I was 23 and able to get a loan on my own. Having never gone through the process on my own, my aunt T was willing to help me whenever I miffed it up. The next (and last) year I was 24 and finally able to apply for financial aid with my own tax information. Every question and quibble I had, my Aunt T would get a call from me, and without missing a beat she always knew how to help. I finally graduated.

Right out of school, I got a job at an Advertising Agency with a big fancy title. It was like the freaking American Dream. The pay was mediocre, but I assumed that’s how it goes for most entry-level workers. After two months of working there, I was already unhappy in my position. My bosses promised big things from the very beginning and rarely came through. They would tell me that I was “in training” and not to worry because, before I knew it, I would be up to my ears in marketing plans, copywriting, and advertising campaigns.

Six months later, I am still filing paperwork, answering the phones, and refilling the same paperwork that the big wigs can’t seem to put away after they’re done. (Come on now, didn’t we all watch Sesame Street when we were growing up? Clean up your freaking toys when you’re done playing with them!!)

I have expressed my dissatisfaction:


Me: Big Boss Man, I am looking for new challenges and projects that will stretch my skills in my position.

BBM: I know that you’re bored but I’m just too busy to take the time to show you how to do the things I hired you to do. (I may have embellished a little.)


What ticks me right off is that I don’t need to be shown how to write copy for a commercial and I don’t need to be shown how to create a marketing plan. I just spent the last three years of my life (not including my time at the community college) preparing for this damn job in which I make less per year than the amount I'll have to pay back in student loans.

So, what’s my solution to this predicament? I’m back in school. Not to get my masters degree but for cosmetology. (My apologies for that ‘one-eighty’ I may have just pulled on you.) Yes, I have decided that, in the mere eight months I’ve been in the advertising industry, that “I just can’t do it cap’n! I just can’t do it!”

Who knows, I may stick with advertising if I can find another, more fulfilling position. But, for now I just can’t wait around for something amazing to happen to my career. I have to know that I’m working towards something because, right now, I can’t help but feel like I’m going to be reorganizing that damned filing cabinet until I’m 80.