It's that time of the week!! The time where I have the opportunity to unleash all the bitchin' and moanin' I have pent up inside on all of you guys. Have your splash guards ready. You don't want this crap in your eyes.
I went Monday for a pedicure and a fill, just like any good diva does. Stress at work has put me in Lock Down and quite frankly, if I don't HAVE to talk to you, I am probably not going to. I really can't muster at this point even small talk. So to avoid lengthy conversations with my usual girl Savannah, I decided to just throw my money out of the window and go to a salon in the town I was working in.
********Now, before you go on reading, let me give you a little background on my bad working experiences with 4 of the Asian population. Basically, they cheated me and had me work sweatshop working hours and conditions and then decided not to follow thru with their end of the deal. Now I have some wonderful friends who are Asians and because I love them, race is not an issue. Because I loathe these four, meeting new Asians makes me leery and I get sucked into the typecasting more easily. I know I am terrible.**********
I arrive at the selected salon and the 2 girls inside were very friendly and very happy to see me come in, as I was their first customer of the day. I told them what I needed and one said, "Pick you color," for my pedicure. Normally I get the french, but since it was cool and Fall is approaching, I decided to go with color. My very hip and cool daughter had just gotten the newest craze with dark, almost black, polish on her toes. After my initial shock of the Gothic look, I decided it looked kinda cute and maybe I would try the dark thing.
I couldn't bring myself to even pick up the black polish, but the browns were close enough for me. So I chose a chocolate color and handed it to HER. I didn't get HER name, because, honestly I didn't care. She wouldn't even accept the polish I had chosen, and instead using her Vanna White skills, showed me a display of nail polish. "Dese the new colahs. Dese much better." Oh, ok, so I took a look. Nope. I liked what I had chosen better.
Me: "I like this one." Trying again to hand her the polish.
HER: "You like dese more. Go better wit your skin."
Me: "REALLY. This is the color I want." And maybe I did place it rather forcefully in her hand, but she took it.
She turned and began to yammer in her native tongue something that apparently was the War Cry to begin the Vietnam torture. She began by not heating the water or turning on the jets that make all the relaxing bubbles. Nothing. Not even smell goods sprinkled in there. Just water. I let this slide, thinking at least she wasn't going to boil my delicate white feet flesh off. My phone went off in my purse down on the floor beside me and I leaned to pick it up. She didn't offer to hand it to me, obviously amused that the short round white lady with her feet in the plain jane non-bubbly water might tumble out of the high throne she sat in.
Alrighty then. She is taking this color thing a little far! She began the sloughing and got a little carried away and I flinched. "Oh, dat hurt you?" she asked without even raising her head to look at me. No, precious, I was just admiring the cloud of dust that you created as you buffed off my entire layer of epidermis. I just nodded my head to none there with my 'don't make me kick your sweet and sour ass' look on my face.
Thankfully, another patron arrived and sat next to me. A wave of relief passed over me as I thought that she would be a witness if whatever-her-name-was decided to take the torture to the next level. The dust settled and she began the cuticle phase. She only made me whimper once, but couldn't hear me over her foreign rants to her co-worker next to her. Man, she is sooo cussing me right now, I thought.
Normally, at every other salon I have been to, when a patron moans in a good way, the employee continues to do whatever made that patron moan- for a long time. In the same spot. Oh no. Not mine. She hit a good place and out escaped the moan of "Awww, yeah, right there". She immediately stopped. Surely she did not just do that intentionally. Surely she thought it had hurt me. So she proceeds to a different area and finds another one of my g-spots there. "Mmmm," I said, closing my eyes for added dramatic effect. Again, immediate stop. I opened my eyes and was at this point pissed. "That felt good there. Do that place more." Okay, maybe I should have said please, and maybe I should have smiled. Regardless, she didn't do it more. She instead went to the top of my foot where no "good spots" live. By this time I am glaring at her. The lady next to me is asleep in her chair as her girl is rubbing and massaging with the oils and tenderness and love I longed for. It looked so good. I was almost salivating watching.
The torture continued as she slapped my fat calves a little harder than what I was used to and kneaded my doughy flesh with added vigor. Then it was time for the polish. Great. The whole reason she hated me. The color she didn't want to use. She tried to open it and couldn't. She said something to her co-worker (probably, "Can you open this ugly ass color that I think will look ridiculous on her fat lily-white feet?") but neither of them could get it open. I held out my hand to try and she slammed the color, as hard as I had done to her, in my hand. Touche. I tried with my right hand and tried again. Nothing. Left hand. Nothing. By this time I had resolved myself that if I had to bust the f'n thing open and she had to paint it on thru the broken chards of glass, I was GOING to have that damn color on my toes!!!
So I used my teeth. There. Opened! With teeth marks on the top. Good. Just in case the CSI/CIA people needed it for dental identification purposes when they find my charred remains in the alley behind the salon. She painted it on and she was not happy. I had no idea what she was saying, but I am pretty sure the words "murder", "lots of white meat", and "tastes like chicken" were said.
I was released from the chamber and went to pay. Needless to say, I, who have been crowned greatest tipper in the world, did NOT leave my captor anything but a dirty look.
I share that story to say this, when you perform a service for someone and expect monetary compensation for that service, you should try to strive for customer satisfaction. If you don't care about the customer, then get a new line of work. I know this personally. I serve people. I have to care for them and tend to their needs. It is job security when my customers are satisfied.
I don't care whether you work in retail, medical, personal, or financial areas- your job is to SERVE. Hence the word service. Please be kind. I am not asking that you ask me to dinner or even ask about my kids or how my day is going. Just have the right attitude. You are being paid by me to assist me. And freakin' be happy about it. Don't get all pissy when I want something you think I shouldn't have or don't want to do. Again, my money, my choice. The customer is always right. Most people don't abuse that privelege. If you do, shame on you, too.
Your attitude is crucial in whether or not your customer is happy.
And especially don't threaten to make eggrolls out of your customers.