It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten my claws sharpened, so I made an appointment for yesterday afternoon. Note that word appointment.
Normally, I make my appointments early in the morning. But I had stuff to do early in the day and decided that I wanted to go in at 3.
Anyway, I don’t exactly go to the most upscale place — the price is right and my technician does beautiful work. And when I walk in, everyone knows me. It’s like “Cheers” but instead of beers, I simply get high off the fumes from the acrylics.
As this is not a place in hugely high demand, they get their lion’s share of business from walk-ins who happen to be in that shopping complex. I refuse to do that — I make appointments because I always seem to be on a time schedule. That, and the whole point of the endeavor is to feel important and special and, ultimately, pampered.
That said, we almost had a throwdown at the salon yesterday. The entire waiting room was filled to the brim with women. I walked up to the front desk, signed in and waited outside for five minutes until Helen came to get me.
I sat at her nail station while she ran to wash her hands. At which time, six very ghetto broads started YELLING. At ME.
“We was here first!”
“Who you think you is, BIATCH?”
“You wait yo’ turn!”
(I told you it wasn’t upscale.)
And let me tell you, I was more than ready for a big ole throwdown — I have a lot of misdirected (and, frankly, undirectable) emotions that are more than happy to manifest in a girlfight.
I looked right at the one I figured was the meanest, and in my patented dead-calm voice, I said, “I have an appointment. Do you?”
“Oh no she di’in’t!!!!”
(People still SAY that?!?!)
What I find entertaining is how they’re ready to rip my hair out, not just over me supposedly getting my nails done first (like there aren’t 12 other manicurists without appointments), but how they acted like it was my fault that my manicurist came and got me. Although, let’s face it, if she got to choose who she worked on first, I doubt any of them would have won that round. (Besides, I tip extraordinarily well — who wouldn’t pick me? lol)
I had a mind to reach past Tracy’s head and beat those bitches senseless with the appointment book — where my name had been listed for QUITE a few days.
You know, when I feel I’ve been wronged in some way — to the point where I am motivated to share my concerns — I normally (politely) direct my inquiry to the receptionist or someone in charge to pontificate why it is that someone else got preferential treatment when, clearly, I had been waiting longer.
Unless it’s in a grocery store, at which point I will gladly attempt to shove my shopping cart up their asses or, at least, scrape their heels a bit.
Anyway, the Ghetto Fabulous crew was finally pacified when my manicurist heard the commotion and confirmed to them that I did, in fact, have an appointment.
I was there longer than any of them anyway — they all got the cheapie $10 manicure special and were out the door (thankfully). But I sure got the hairy eyeball turned toward me as they waddled out together.
At which time I pulled my most serene smile out of my ass for each of them.
I hate assholes, but I will ALWAYS out-class them. Because it is not that hard to do.