Thursday, December 19, 2002

The Haircut That Wasn't

Lunchtime. Company Christmas Party T-Minus 7 hours. Hair needs cutting.

The Scene: Fantastic Sam's that has been raved about by one of my fellow co-workers. Our hero enters and walks up to the counter. An older female hairstylist walks up to the counter to greet our hero. It becomes immediately obvious that she has a thick Eastern European accent. Possibly Russian.

Hairstylist: Hallo, kan eye 'elp you?

Our hero is perplexed. This is a hairstyling salon thing, right? What else would he be here for?

Me: Uhhhh....yeah. I'd like a haircut, please?
Stylist: Fone numbar?

Our hero already smells disaster in the making. He's in Chicago, so if he gives out his phone number without the area code, there is the slight possibility that someone else, since we're now in a different area code, might be registered here under the same number. So he starts with the area code first...

Me: ::sighs:: Six three oh...
Stylist: ::looking down, pushing keys on computer keyboard:: Seex...tharee...zeeroh... ::looks up expectantly::
Me: Eight nine eight.
Stylist: ::looking down again:: say ate?
Me: Yes, eight nine eight.
Stylist: Ate....nein......nein?
Me: No, eight nine eight.
Stylist: Ate...nine.....ate
Me: Four seven three four*
Sylist: Ohhh! You giv aireeah kode furst! No aireeah kode. Just numbar. Leht sdart aygain.

Our hero shows true patience, and doesn't just tell her to screw the phone number, because he knows that's how these cheap hair cutting places keep track of their clients. He steels himself for another volley of stupidity.

Me: Eight nine eight.
Styleest: say ate, rite?
Me: Eight nine eight.
Styleest: Ate...nein... ::looks up at me expectantly::
Me: Eight nine eight.
Styleest: Ate...seex?
Me: Eight nine eight.
Styleest: Okay. You giv name now.
Me: Piotr.

I then sat in a chair waiting my turn for a haircut, when I noticed that Rooskie the Numbar Boochar was cutting a guy's hair, and nearly finished, while the other two women were either in the process of doing a dye job on a girl or starting a perm on another woman.

Odds of getting a woman who couldn't even take my phone number: high. Odds same woman would be able to understand my instructions on how I'd like my hair cut: only slightly better than winning the lottery.

So I did the math and simply got up and walked out.

Disaster averted.

* No, that isn't my real phone number.

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