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“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I have an appointment at 6, my name is Marianne.”
“It’ll be five minutes, ok?”
Of course it’s ok. It’s five to 6 and I still have to finish my coffee. I’m used to having to wait five minutes now and then. I do it on purpose, actually. Being five minutes early that is, as being five minutes late for an appointment is one of my fears. This time, however, the appointment seems to be five minutes late for me. I don’t mind, as I don’t have any plans tonight anyway, other than goofing around at home with my flatmate, which is how I spend many of my Thursday evenings.
It’s seven minutes past. I look in the direction of the apprentice-chick, who’s sweeping the floor, and get her attention only by looking at her. We have eye contact for a second. I figure she probably has it all under control, and she continues sweeping the floor. I continue looking at my feet.
It’s 12 past. In a failed attempt to tell apprentice-chick that my appointment was 13 minutes ago, I smile. She smiles back and I’m quite pleased. Apprentice-chick still has everything under control.
My dirty shoelaces are all of a sudden not that interesting, now that I’ve waited 18 minutes without anything happening. It becomes clear to me that I have to tell someone that 19 minutes have passed, and it freaks me out. Confronting people I don’t know, telling them I’m not happy about something, is another fear of mine. Besides, 20 minutes is a lot of time in a place like this, and their schedule is probably already all fucked up and they’re going to be running late all evening, because of the lacking communication between apprentice-chick and me.
A woman with blue hair, who clearly can read minds, asks me if I have an appointment or something. I kindly tell her that yes, my appointment was at 6 and that I already told the girl at the counter I’m here. A surprised expression develops on the telepathic woman’s face, which by the way has a couple of star tattoos, which only makes me think about that stupid girl in Belgium, who lied about falling asleep at the tattoo parlour, so that her father wouldn’t get angry at her for getting 56 stars tattooed all over the left side of her face. Then the incident hit the media, resulting in dermatologists all over Western Europe giving their expert opinions on how painful it would be to have it removed, and on how the tattoo artist needed to be punished for the horrible assault he committed against the poor girl. (Dermatologists were apparently the new guardians of justice to the skin, or something, for the brief period of time this went on.) The tattoo artist, from the looks of it a young, unhealthy man with one or two face piercings too many, stuck with his story, also known as the truth. Everyone else had however already, thanks to how the media angled it, chosen Belgian-girl’s side. The other day someone told me, in German, that lies have short legs. Belgian-girl finally cracked after a week and told the truth instead of her dwarf lies (I mean, come ooon: she fell asleep while getting a tattoo? In the face?!!). Now she has to live with public humiliation, in addition to an angry father and a star struck face. Way to go, Belgian-girl. Anyway, blue-haired telepathic-woman with surprised face wants to know who I was talking to earlier, and as I point out apprentice-chick, now over by the counter again, several of my fears come true.
“Are you retarded?! You have to tell me that my customer is here!”
“…”
“She’s been waiting for almost half an hour, while I’ve been in the back doing other stuff!”
“But…”
“But what?!”
“I didn’t talk to her. Haven’t even seen her ‘til now.”
Waitwhaaat? Apprentice-chick has the nerve to say that she hasn’t even seen me until now? Even after that moment we shared, when I smiled instead of complaining, and she smiled back? She messed up, and is now blaming me, the customer, who’s supposed to always be right, and I am – but I’m not? Sorry, too complicated, let’s go on with the story. Telepathic-woman calms down, and I place myself in the chair she points me to. It’s boiling inside of me, but I say nothing. I’m not happy with the conclusion being that apprentice-chick has to talk to people and ask them if they have an appointment or something, if they don’t present themselves at the counter, because that means someone might still be thinking that I’m the one who’s lying. And it certainly doesn’t feel right sitting next to them, witnessing telepathic-woman telling apprentice-chick off.
The awkwardness wears down. Everything is going smoothly, or at least not very badly. There are the occasional obligatory small talk moments, at which I suck, because I always say “yeah” or “hehehehe” instead of something that has actual content. Apprentice-chick is nowhere to be seen, so I figure she’s gone home for the evening, and I’m pleased I only have one more hour or so to go. Telepathic-woman accidentally drops purple, chemic goo onto my face. She excuses herself a trillion times, bringing some of the awkwardness back to life, and says she’s really happy it didn’t land in my eye. I say “hehehehe.”
After almost 40 minutes, telepathic-woman is done making me look like an alien warrior, and wants me to come with her to the sinks. I stand up and follow her over there, and again she reads my mind, because she points out the one intended for me, releasing me from the stress of having to choose one myself. (I don’t know why I don’t like that, I just don’t.) I sit down, lean back towards the sink and place my neck in the grope designed for necks. The alien warrior-look is being destroyed with water and telepathic-woman’s gentle hand movements. This is supposed to be very comfortable, and I bet for some it is. Head massages given by women with blue hair are amazing, but I’d rather not have one if I could choose. The reason for this is that I never know if I’m supposed to close my eyes or not. If I close them, she might think I’m enjoying it so much that I don’t want her to stop (which I do), and then she’ll probably do it a little longer than usual, but then again maybe think that I’m a little weird for closing my eyes and enjoying it so much. With my eyes open, she might think I’m not enjoying it at all and that I want her to stop (which I really do), and maybe she’ll get a little offended, or at least think I’m a little weird for keeping my eyes open in a situation like this. With all this in the back of my head I decide to close my eyes. Then I decide to open them again. This repeats itself too many times until the massage is finally over.
(Remember earlier when I told you that I was finishing my coffee? Well, I finished it, and now I have to pee. There’s really not much more to say, except for maybe that it’s incredibly uncomfortable having to pee when you’re in a place and time where and when it’s not considered completely normal to excuse yourself and go to the toilet. So, I decide not to go to the toilet.)
I notice, to my absolute liking, that we’re almost done. The only thing remaining is the quick transformation from wet to dry. This transformation is a very easy operation to perform, and is mostly delegated to apprentices, meaning I can’t even begin to describe how happy I am that apprentice-chick’s not around to do it, as that could result in being one of the most unpleasant moments in my life up until now. Blue-haired telepathic-woman plugs in the device and gets started. It feels all right; not too hot, not too harsh. Her hands are also as gentle as before. My bladder would have screamed at me if it could, and I keep telling it there will be a toilet for it soon. But I’m wrong. From out of nowhere, or probably from out of the staff room, apprentice-chick appears. My heart skips a series of beats as telepathic-woman gives her the device and commands her to finish the transformation.
Ever had to spend unexpected alone-time with your current boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend? I’ve never had to do that, mainly because I don’t have a boyfriend, a girlfriend, an ex-boyfriend or an ex-girlfriend, which is fine. I can imagine this situation being excruciating, but I assure you – spending unexpected alone-time with an apprentice who has a grudge on you, that you don’t even deserve, is worse. In this moment, I’m better at being a rock than a rock. I figure the only way to get out of this without having to shed any tears or parts of my integrity, is to sit completely still and don’t say a word. Apprentice-chick’s hands are fierce and the device is set to superhot. I fear I might be getting burn wounds, and I don’t know if they’ll be caused by the overheated device, or the invisible flames shooting out from apprentice-chick’s eyes. She’s definitely taking her time, because my bladder has become so inpatient that it’s cursing at me in Bladderish. I manage to hold it in, but I can’t hold back the tears. My body is overloaded with pain and unattended needs. I look at the stone face in the mirror in front of me, at how the tears are streaming down its cheeks. Then I look at apprentice-chick’s cheeks, at how they surround her satisfied smile. Integrity shed.
I pay a sum of money enough to cover a night out on the town for me and three alcoholics, and leave with a “complimentary” bottle filled with a clear and sticky substance, which supposedly works magic. As I finally get home to my beloved toilet, I spend the three minutes it takes to completely empty and satisfy my bladder, thinking about how being at the hairdresser’s is a horrifying nightmare.
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