Stiff

Dearest Shampoogirl,

Your blonde tresses are really pretty, but I am afraid they are not enough. Nor was your skill in clipping a black towel around my neck that exemplary: the towel slithered to the floor moments later and lay there, rejected, for the next two hours. I felt its pain.

You see, Shampoogirl, as much as it must suck to roll little towels and stuff them in a basket, as much as it must nauseate you to wash hair, oh, three times in two hours, or lead a client to the dryer now and then, it is simply part of your job. I don't believe the salon hired you to be Stuckupprincessgirl.

Thanks to you, my forehead is brown. My scalp and hair really did need more than the ten-second swoop of suds, and rubbing one side of my head was just the ticket. Oh, and the joyful 30 minutes under the dryer with ice cold air blasting on my glaze was just so divine. I felt so precious when you stomped your royal foot and ordered me to another chair when I dared to grab a magazine. Oh, the agony!

Shampoogirl, all my life I have been a generous tipper. I've served for a living and I know how awful it can be. Today I did something I've never done in my entire life: I kept your tip in my pocket. And gosh, Shampoogirl, not one of the other women you hosed down this afternoon coughed it up, either. We weren't cheap. We didn't forget.

But apparently you did.

Your dyed-and-not-so-devoted customer,
The fat lady

Rolling on the river

Sunday would not be Sunday in the Yaegerhut without the hot Panera injection. J has developed this odd addiction to their cinnamon crunch bagels and lowfat cream cheese, and sways with rapture as he feasts and conquers his world for the week.

Not being a fan of their pretty pastries that taste like sawdust, I usually end up ordering lunch at 10:30 am. I have overdosed on their lowfat black bean soup. It's not bad if I can convince them to stop being so damn stingy with the croutons. Honestly. I ask for croutons, and they hand me a baggie filled with oh, four. Once, five. I am not satisfied with less than eight.

On yesterday's jaunt, I was almost delirious as their website promised the trifecta: a new salad, a new sandwich, and a new soup. Wheee! Got there to discover the salad and sandwich, but the same old boring and greasy soup choices. Where oh where was my spring pea with asparagus and mint?

I made the mistake of asking the Paneroid at the counter, and with great sighing and banging upon her shiny register, she rolled her eyes as if I had asked her to calculate Pi to 57 places. And as my husband bounced up and down with glee over his forthcoming toasty bagel, I contemplated all the miseries that my first boss would've heaped upon her snotty, indifferent head. Paneragirl, you are a bad, bad person.

Overblown

It has been a frustrating month, what with disappearing editors and gigs that slink out of town in the middle of the night. At times I have looked at the multi-pierced barista at the local Barnesbucks and wondered if her nonchalant incompetence is actually a sign of superior intelligence.

But then I am granted a small sign or two. Case in point: yesterday, after a meeting that left me reeling, I stopped by a couple of nail salons to deliver the latest issue of Nails Magazine. The salons had been sources for my article, The One Hour Princess (on profitable pedicures) and I thought they might like to see the piece. (It's here if you're so inclined.)

Well.

Got to the first salon, and there was my article, blown up into a giant poster in the front window. The counter was covered with copies. On to the second salon, where the owner threw me into a chair and got teary eyed as she described reading the issue she got in the mail. Apparently she didn't quite understand why I was asking all those questions or taking photos a few months back, but there she was. "It was a dream come true," she sighed, and chased me out to the car to hug me.

Better than a hot stone therapy massage with extra reflexology.