-----Original Message-----
FROM: Helga The Help
SENT: Apr 27 2004 12:00AM
SUBJECT:Salon Complaint
Helga the Complaint Outsourcer!!!
That's right! I wrote this on behalf of a friend who also happens to be a girl. I know...I'm so popular.
Anyway, she would not let me send this in but said that it's OK to post for all of you to read.
One of the most elegant gender-defining attributes in a woman’s wardrobe is her hair. In an age where a woman finds herself free to shop in the men’s department, she can always count on her beautifully long and flowing hairstyle to distinguish her as the fairer sex. Indeed such hair is as uniquely female as goatees are male. (only without the trendy shelf-life). Its texture strong and healthy, its styling gentle and curvaceous, and its handling sensual and arousing, my hair had the power to strike envy into the souls of women and love into the hearts of men. But then, on April 23rd, in the year of our Lord 2004, I was robbed of my sensuality.
My appointment with Danny began in the traditional format but quickly digressed into an exercise in beginner’s inexperience and self-absorbed monologues. For the grueling duration of my appointment, I was reminded less of my prior spa-like experiences and more of my sessions of reconstructive dentistry.
Danny opened with a critique of my hairstyle saying that “Very few people can part their hair in the middle” with the implication that I was obviously in the majority who cannot. He discussed many things such as how “in shape” he was and how difficult it was for him to shop for clothes. During these monologues, to which I listened with amusement, he aptly demonstrated his multi-tasking capabilities by taking no fewer than 4 (four) phone calls, which punted his mood between metrosexual indifference and money-collecting anger. After taking off far too much hair and half-heartedly washing it, he proceeded to blow-dry it with such intense heat that I had to inform him of my anguish on two closely-spaced occasions.
Earlier, while shoving my head into the washbasin, Danny informed me that he accepts only cash as payment for his…um, services. Part of me almost commended him on his foresight as his ineptitude would certainly culminate in a plethora of chargebacks. The other part wanted to protest…to plead my case…to tell Danny that he ought to be paying me for robbing me of my once beautiful and awe-inspiring follicles but remembered that my neck was arched like a sacrificial lamb’s and after the rage that had come upon him during one of his financial phone calls, I was afraid that he may have a straight razor nearby.
As I left the salon, I seethed in my resentment and cursed the friend who gave me Danny’s coupon. My scalp was seared well-done and little crispy hair remnants stood up in mute protest at the horrors which had befallen them. My innocence shattered, my hair butchered and my wallet considerably thinner, I limped away vowing to never again set foot into the torture chamber that is Danny's Stylist chair.
Sincerely,
Helga The Help