"UM, LIKE, YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN?"

When I signed up for a degree in Cosmetology, the curriculum did not include conflict resolution or psychotherapy. I had no idea that personality management would play a major role in my career. My professional goals were; use god-given talents, create and enhance beauty, and support thyself financially. According to Beauty School statistics, two percent of the students who complete a degree in Cosmetology actually go on to work in the industry. The profession is more complicated and difficult than people realize, and the old adage, “she wasn’t very bright, so we sent her to beauty school” should be put to rest because it’s a uniformed cliché. The following experience made me question whether or not I would make it in the beauty business...

I can’t remember her name, but she was a retired Grade School teacher, nagging control freak, and world-class sour puss. She received fifty-nine of the sixty manicures required to complete my Beauty School Program. Her nasty trick was smug silence, leaving me the responsibility to initiate and maintain all conversation. Only when I tossed the ball, would she whack it across the net. Strategy and defense were not even in my tool kit yet, I was a socially inept teenager and her intimidating manner made me very nervous. Old what’s-her-name had an hour and a half to fire at my flawed vocabulary, and repeatedly pummel my poor word choices. Unfortunately, I couldn’t pull off a twenty minute manicure, and rushing could have set me up for a do-over. Sometimes you must stand up for yourself, but this bully knew I was trapped, not working for money, as I would in the future, but for a passing grade. My simple plan was to be kind and considerate, cheer her up, make her laugh, and pray for a break.

Grammar was the main source of her irritation. If my sentence ended with, “ya know what I mean?” she would say “NO, I don’t know what you mean!” If I mumbled, she would pretend not to hear me, and scream, “WHAT?! WHAT?!!” Every time I slipped on a “like” or an “um” she exploded. She sifted through my words like a heat seeking missile, attentive for errors, or incorrect usage of a verb, relishing every mistake. Meanwhile, I chirped along, searching for anecdotes to lighten her mood, hiding my anguish. You‘ve got to know what you can control, and unfortunately it’s only ever yourself.

Had I been a strategist, I might have taken note that, despite the weekly manicures and blow dry styles, she was hopelessly unattractive. Like a bow on a turd, it was useless. She knew nothing about hairstyles or fashion. But I did. I was raised on it. My Mother was a fashion model turned Mary Kay consultant nicknamed, “Eyeshadow.” She emphasized poise and style to her daughter, there was no other way to be. I was wearing makeup by the sixth grade, cutting and coloring my own hair long before entering beauty school. We were a fashion forward family. I could have jabbed at this woman’s soft spot and brought her down to size. But I never did.

At her final appointment, I announced with glee this was to be my last required manicure. I told stories and shared current events as always, but now I knew my every flaw, and there were no more grammatical errors. Carefully choosing my words, there was nothing to feast on. She scattered to find a new approach, threatening to request me again because she liked the way I did her nails, and the school would have to comply with the wishes of a client. But my lessons were over, and she was finished.

I sprayed her nails with the quick dry and pulled the table away. While cleaning my manicure table and implements, she stormed to the front desk to secure another dim student who needed grammatical training. One of the student receptionists, learning to make announcements over the PA, failed to turn the system off before what’s-her name stepped up. With nails beautifully polished, hair perfectly styled, and displeasure strewn across her face, she clearly broadcasted, "Put me down next week, same time,
I want a manicure and a blow job.”

Students and staff froze in shock. Jaws dropped and eyes popped open. Seconds of silence passed before everyone realized, a daft old lady just made a silly mistake, and then the howls of laughter ensued.

She never returned to the Beauty School for service.

And counted among that two percent who survive and thrive in the beauty industry,
I continue to use my god-given talents to create and enhance beauty.