I hate these big, oversized Halliburton trucks, which have been making a big, oversized presence on the roads around here lately.
Every time I see one, I fill with hate: hate for the industry they represent and the casual freedom with which they roll in and strafe the land.
I hate sharing the road with them as they crawl at 20 MPH on a two-lane highway, making me late for my manicure.
And yes. I know exactly how that sounds: privileged, superficial, and bitchy.
I know. And I don’t care. Yesterday, I factored in plenty of time to negotiate a known detour, with a little time to spare to get to my manicure feeling relaxed.
Instead, I was 15 minutes late because these two behemoths crawled along at zero miles an hour, backing up traffic for miles.
The manicurist called as I was creeping into town, thinking I had forgotten my appointment. I answered her on my watch. A few minutes later, frazzled and apologetic, I arrived, fully willing to reschedule if she had no time. But I was her last appointment. Pfew.
I had never been to this place for a manicure. She sat me down and had me soak my hands in some tepid water. Then, she proceeded to launch into a whole diatribe about the week from hell she’d been having, including how one of her geese had been pecked viciously by her guinea hens, which involved blood and the need for an antibiotic that she was dashing off to get as soon as she finished my nails.
She also told me how she had rear-ended a Probation officer because she got distracted by her phone.
And on and on this went as she filed my pathetic, stubby nails, pushed back my cuticles (but forgot to trim them), slapped on some base coat, followed by two coats of polish and a layer of topcoat, and then had me sit there until they dried because there was no dryer.
NO DRYER.
So, I got up, swung my arms in the air to speed up the drying process, and pretended to be interested in the retail while she disappeared.
After ten minutes of this arm flapping, the guy at the register said, “Nails dry fast,” which I assumed meant I was done and it was time to pay and go.
But he was wrong. Because I no sooner got into my car than I noticed my thumb polish had cratered in three places.
And by the time I got home, this time at a speedy 60 mph, most of my other nails were peeling. So, my little, self-indulgent manicure was a total waste of time and money. And I was now in a foul mood.
The moral of the story is this: If you work with the public, you have to be professional, focus on your work, and do the best job you can.
You also need to be self-aware and consider the context and the expectations of the people you serve. My manicurist either forgot, didn’t care, or didn’t realize what it meant to work as a manicurist at a spa. I was her customer, not her therapist. Your customers don’t want to hear your problems; they just want their nails done.
She had underdeveloped social skills and no self-awareness. I predict she won’t be successful at this job. I suspect she is much better with poultry, and should put her energies there.
I empathize with people who have to deal with rude people daily, though. The general public tends to be impatient, demanding, and entitled. Ugh. But people in the service industries know this comes with the territory.
As a consumer of public services, I know how hard it is for sellers of goods and services to please this rude, demanding public. So, I make sure to be polite to a fault and understand when things go haywire, which they inevitably do.
So I clucked understandingly at the sorry plight of the manicurist’s bloody, featherless goose. I also concurred that she was lucky it was only a probation officer and not a cop and that the dent was minor.
But the whole time, I was thinking to myself: SHUT THE FUCK UP.
I will never go back. I will never recommend her.
Instead, I will write this blog post about it and let it go.
Okay. So, what do you do when service people are weird and clueless? Feign interest and then simply never go back? Or be a Karen and ask to speak to the manager?
Inspiration Location 