Yesterday a friend asked me "what kind of people get their hair cut at a school?" One of my classmates once had an especially pungent client. She had hair down to her knees that she allegedly hadn't washed in three weeks for "religious reasons". After the woman left, my idiot classmate embellished her olfactory experience repeatedly for maximum sympathy. But this particular woman is the only not-so-good client experience that comes to mind. I explained to my friend that I've been lucky with my clients. Most of them have been down to earth, youngish girls who like to travel. Finding common ground is easy and conversation flows smoothly. This group usually tips best. I've had a couple of fairly wealthy clients, lawyers, country club members, who just seem to like the energy and enthusiasm of the student body. They ask a lot of questions about the decision making process that lead to me to this point. I stand over their their supine bodies, holding their heads in my hands. I massage shampoo into their scalps and tell them "well, it was kind of a whim." I've been told I give good scalp massages.
The majority of my clients have a college education, which surprised me considering our bargain level service prices. I've had a few clients on the less-educated, lower-income end of the spectrum, but not as many as I would have expected. This group is infinitely less chatty than the aforementioned. I ask everyone the same conversation-prompting questions, and here I'm met with one word answers. "What do you do for work?" "Maintenance." Once this older man came in who hadn't had a haircut in fifteen years. He'd been buzzing his own head, he didn't look like Rapunzel. But I don't think he had ever set foot in a proper salon before. He was visibly uncomfortable with all the pleasantries and formalities: the bubbly receptionists with rainbow hair, the complementary herbal tea, the hand and shoulder massages. When he sat down at my station I immediately identified his smell as a combination of cigarettes and McDonalds. I haven't set foot in a McDonalds in years. It's incredible how scent-identification is so firmly imbedded in the human memory. I'm doing my best to make this guy feel less out of place. He's a grandfather so I ask about his grandkids, he is apparently estranged from all of his children and grandchildren, even though they all live in Portland. Family seems like a sore subject. I tentatively skirt around a few other topics before I ask "Have you ever been to The Nite Hawk?" Then I'm grateful for my five month stint as a trashy diner waitress when he lights up a little and he tells me, yes he has. After I inform him that I once worked there, he relaxes and becomes slightly more talkative. I have clearly gained entry level access to his trust. I am now borderline relatable. I silently congratulate myself for sticking with that miserable job for those five long months. Conversation is now flowing fairly smoothly, I ask if he has a dog. Then I took a few seconds to silently congratulate my mastery of the art of conversation, because (and I can personally attest to the validity of this statement) anyone who loves their dog can talk about dogs for hours.
