Just don’t do it – Chapter 1

Ok so I wrote a post the other day which triggered some lovely soul crushing memories of previous part time jobs. It made me want to go back and access each one. Or at the very least attempt to travel down the tunnels in my ever decreasing brain where memory is stored, try to form a real memory unshaped by emotion or situation and work out WTF happened there.

My first ever experience of being a wage slave was working in a hair dressers. I don’t know if I was blessed or cursed by our family hairdresser who gave me a job in his crouch end store instead of his turnpike lane branch. I am still trying to work out if serving the wealthy is more or less painful than attending to the needs of the lower paygrade. I guess I’m hoping through rehashing all this I might work out the answer and then proportion blame to whom so ever is accountable. Or, come to the brutal realization that I am just a moody ducker who doesn’t play well with other kids.
So, the hair dressers, where it all started. You know how a place can stay with you forever? By subliminally abusing your senses all day everyday, or in my case 8-8 every Saturday. (Believe me, even that was enough intoxication) AVEDA in through the nose and Coldplay and stereophonics back to back in through the side oesophagus’s. It was also a weird time in my life as I wasn’t quite myself. If we are ever ourselves or even know what that is. If you do then I am very jealous. I had just turned 16. I stopped exercising. Was changing from this sporty rake to a very soft edged, big boobed thing, that didn’t have a clue how to dress for her shape, was in control of her own packed lunch ( which of course then meant I wasted £1.20 of the £20 for the day on two Gregg’s chicken pasties) so not in control of her weight and had spent so long inside ice rinks that she missed all the girly sessions with friends where ‘they’ all learnt what their drink was, clothes, hair, make up etc etc.
I was not ready to be working alongside semi adults for 12hrs. I say semi adults as I have done hair shows! I have seen the after parties. And any hair dressers out there who pretend to be pissed off now, you know what I mean. You lot are the worst! I have seen most industries through doing corporate gigs and hairdressers come up trumps in being able to get themselves smashed in a short time frame, be incredsibly loud and obnoxious. (Don’t worry I will leave out the bit about infidelity etc) Oops #wink

Anyways, Saturday job, back in the day, Hands in strangers hair = ghastly experience. I now have a full understanding why the lady washing my hair never gives too much of a crap and wants to get it over and done with. I mean really access what it is she is being asked to do. She has to put her bare hands (i have heard now they wear gloves, I was not that fortunate) into your hair, and yes remember that most people don’t wash their hair before they come to the hairdressers they do the opposite. They like to leave their rats tails to get especially bedraggled and shiny with natures grease and grime and then ask you to massage harder into their depths of unknown and (if you are as unfortunate as I was) discover weird cube shaped lumps in there. Seriously! One in the front and one near the nape! It was that, moment of freak out where you cant stop as then they know you have noticed, but they didnt say anything so they don’t think it’s weird. But IT IS WEIRD! warn me mo fo! So you carry on. But are they natural? Are they bolts that have had skin grow over the top? Are they just felsh? do they have puss in? Could I knock one off? Will you short cicuit and die?  Whichever, whatever… it is, I want to be sick. I want to take my hands out of this miniature porcelain lake of scary reeds, grab my coat and run home, where I will get under a blanket with gloves on and rock.

But of course I need the soul crushing £20 and ability to say ‘I have a job’. To make my mum proud and so lifelong hairdresser feels good about helping me out.

So then I carry on. Half heartedly and probably give a crap hair wash.

So now Thanks to selfish hair,(thats what I’m going to call node head) Selfish hair now thinks I amd crap at my job. Top hair stylist thinks I can’t even thoroughly wash a simple head and if i was earning more I’m sure I would be deducted pay.

DUCK YOU very much!

For the first time I just thought, Top Stylist will have had to now deal with combing through hair and the possibilty of raking off a node. Hmmmm maybe they would have had a little respect that I dealt with the situation without complaint. Hmmm condition for thought.

Either way, I didnt get a tip.

Could have really done with one. And not monetarily.

Hair washing aside. I learnt to do highlights, which saved my sister a fortune. Got a free colour. Yup only one. And learnt that £20 goes hardly anywhere, so save. Tips were sparse and learnt that wealthy people are so, because they dont give it away. They are also quite rude and happy to be rude about you right in front of you.

As yet from only experience, serving rich people is why I hate customer service jobs.

Next venture grease city…


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