Once a Retarded Woman Cut My Hair

I just walked over to the 7-11 (Oh thank heaven!) to get Sandy a big old 44 oz. Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke and on the way back I took the Penthouse Suite where are chambers are located. We’ve moved on up like the Jeffersons, if you will. Anyway, see if you can find the logic buried deep within this set of facts:

I entered the Employees’ elevator on the first floor. Some woman (hereinafter “Stupid Ho”), wearing tons of floral print and sporting an orange beehive like Flo from Alice enters the elevator on the second floor. She presses the buttons for the sixth and eleventh floor one at a time. Then, the elevator opens on the fifth floor, and she walks out! Um, Earth to Stupid Ho?! So I was stuck with 2 more extra stops than were necessary. I was too confused to whack her over the head with Sandy’s Super Big Gulp. But next time I see her, Stupid Ho’s going to get her comeuppance.

I got my haircut yesterday, but of course not before consulting as many people as possible to see if it was a good idea. I had an idea that it was time for a haircute (as Pauly calls them) when someone called me Johnny Bravo last week. I have severe haircut anxiety that can be traced back to one specific incident. Three weeks before my college graduation, I went to get my haircut at the Hair Cuttery. For those of you that don’t know, this is where they employ anyone who flunks out of beauty school. They sat me in a chair and shampooed me; it was going along like any other visit. Something seemed a little bit “off” about my Hair Cutterist, though, and I couldn’t figure out what exactly. I asked her, per usual, please don’t cut it too short. Ugh. You see, I was getting my haircut by a retarded person.

Like slow motion she grabbed the clippers and went to fucking town. She had given me a crew cut. I don’t have the face or body that’s built for that kind of hair or lack thereof. I just looked like a victim. A victim of what? Oh, anything was applicable. It could have been famine, disease, ethnic cleansing attempt, etc. You name it. On the way out, when I was paying the manager asked me if everything was ok. I said sheepishly that I was uncomfortable with the fact that I was leaving with much less hair than I anticipated. He said that it was nice of me to give me Hair Cuttery woman a chance.

I wondered what he meant. He continued by telling me that the woman who cut my hair was retarded. Not like the colloquial version of retarded that school kids use to taunt others, but she was fully mentally retarded. They were giving her a chance by working there. I had no clue what to say. If I flipped out, then I was insensitive to the needs of the handicapped. If I was silent, then I would be walked all over by the Hair Cuttery and their merry band of Retards. Sigh. I went with the latter and looked foolish for the next month. Since then, I have been trepidacious about the haircut experience. My current haircut worked out well, but I always miss having curls when they’re cut off.

There was DRAMA in the office today. Stephon the tip staff just threw down some papers, ran out of here and quit a couple hours ago. I guess he got into a fight with the Judge. Sandy is walking around crying, praying and singing hymns to Jesus. It's uncomfortable. (But I did sing along to “How Great Thou Art” because I have American Idol fever!) She commented that gays get a bad rap about being dramatic, but when it comes down to it, the title of most dramatic group of individuals belongs to black men. There was no time (or desire) on my part to map out a Venn diagram for Sandy to show her the significant overlap among gays and blacks. Duh, Oprah had a special on “Men on the DL.” Girl, please!

So now it looks like my workload may have just been increased twofold. Fuck. This will include doing all the horrible menial tasks that were formerly in his charge, like parking the judge's car. And for the pennies they currently toss in my direction to maintain a level of competence just a notch above brain-dead, it’s going to be difficult to find the motivation to pick up the slack. But I will do it with dimples and a smile.

Overheard by me on the phone today in the office, Sandy said the following amazing things. Here are some of them completely out of context, to make it more fun for the reader:

“She can’t even get a grip on herself, never mind an Ethiopian.”
“You know Crackers always come back. They got a long life-expectancy.”
“Here, listen carefully to the advice I am about to give you…” [Sandy hangs up phone and mutters to herself, out loud “Stupid bitch.”]

Just another day at the office. I can't wait for the Top Model finale tonight!!!