What in the world does love got to do with a relationship that is literally toxic?
Well, you’ll just have to read on, my friend, read on…
“John would like to see you in the manager’s office…again.”
Say, do you remember that sh*t-job of counting cans and bags of frozen vegetables with the Crypt-Keeper that I talked about last time? You know, the one where I got into trouble because I dared to don a racially-dubious hairstyle? Yeah, that’s the one.
In that tale, I had basically pulled a “You can’t fire me ‘cuz I quit!” and actually made good on that promise two days later. Why would I do such I thing? Well, somebody had to stand up for Black people (and other People of Color) round the world who suffer persecution discrimination when they embrace the hairstyles of their culture. Can you believe that my boss, John, actually had the gall to tell me that I had to take out my dreadlocks or else? Or else what? Or else, he said, I couldn’t keeping doing inventory for whatever random grocery store had hired his crap-tastic company.
*Ahem*…Now that I have reminded you of all those facts, surely you must be wondering, “Wait! I thought our hero had quit…how is John asking to see him in his temporary office again? I thought his days of meddling with that fool were now days of yore?”
Well, as it turns out, I actually quit the first time because it was time to start another semester of college. But college semesters don’t last forever, and Christmas break had rolled around, so I decided to make a little extra fun-money and work for ol’ QIS again for 2 or 3 weeks.
And importantly, you know what happened during that fateful Fall semester of 2001? Uh…I mean besides 9/11? What happened was that my itch to have dreadlocks had been thoroughly scratched (both figuratively and literally–those things dang itchy!), and I had bittersweetly decided to bid my albino tarantula farewell.
And that is where find ourselves in the story…
“Hey El Jefe! Long time, no see! Now what’s all this hub-bub about? Word in the aisle has it that you wanted to see me?”
John somberly shut the door behind me before speaking.
“The HAIR?!? Are you kidding me? Did you learn nothing from last time?”
I was somewhat taken aback. This little pow-wow was about hair? My hair?!?
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on John! What are you talking about? I thought you would be pleased as a properly counted jar of pickles to see that I had cut my dreadlocks off. What gives?”
“Son, have you looked in the mirror lately? I can’t have you working public looking like that.”
Man, this follicly-challenged guy was going to bust my chops no matter what I did with my hair, wasn’t he?
…but to his point, I guess technically I hadn’t considered what John might think if I were to show up to work with…um…well…fuchsia? Red, maybe? No, no, I know: ‘orange’–show up with orange hair.
Okay, it was actually a bit complicated. You see, when I cut my beloved dreads off, I couldn’t just go back to being another boring ol’ vanilla-looking white guy. So what did I do? I popped on down to my local drugstore and bought a box of what was advertised as red hair dye.
Let’s just say that I got more than I had bargained for. Depending on the light, the time of day, and whether or not I had gel in my hair, one could have veritably described my hair color as red, fuchsia, pink, lavender, purple, light purple, orange, cherry, and/or cinnamon.
So that’s what John was going on about. Ah-hah! It all makes sense now…he just hates anything ‘cool’. What a ----- nerd.
“I’m going to have to personally drive you back to the hotel and you had better be blonde when it’s time to go to work in the morning.”
Talk about déjà vu. Just like last time, we were doing a multi-day stint far enough away from home that they had put up the whole inventorying crew in hotels–but this time it was Kansas City instead of Wichita.
However, this time John had caught me early enough in the day, and our hotel was far enough away, that he had no other choice but to load me up in his Subaru and drive me 45 minutes across town.
Dear lord, that was the longest and most awkward 45 minutes of my life. It would have been fine if it had been awkward silence, but noooo, yours truly doesn’t know how to handle silence, so I insisted on chatting the whole way.
Have you ever tried to make casual small-talk with a disapproving superior? I don’t recommend it. On top of that weird dynamic, it doesn’t help that…hmmm, how do I put this? Oh, I know: I’m sad to report that Balding John may very well have been The Least Interesting Man In The World…
“Hmm…the woman on this box of dye looks super-blonde…seems promising…”
While, I wasn’t exactly excited to get rid of my rad-looking hair, I was at least optimistic that it would be problem going back to blonde–and therefore returning to my paying job. I snatched up Platinum Blonde #7, and scurried to the CVS checkout counter, eager to get back to the hotel and get this whole thing over with.
*90 minutes later…*
“What a rip! I’ve been duped by false advertising–I mean, just look at me. I look nothing like the lady on the box!”
The random co-worker I was bunking with in the hotel kinda gave me the side-eye from across the room.
“What’s that you’re going on about?”
“I bought blonde hair dye, but this ain’t working worth crap! Now my hair has gone from red to pink.”
“Maybe you accidentally bought a bleaching product instead of a dye?” he suggested.
“Yeah, that must be it. You hold on…Ima run down to the CVS and be right back!”
*40 minutes later…*
“Okay, I think I got the right stuff now. You mind giving me a hand with this?”
“Yes. I mind. I’m trying to watch a football game here.” Did I mention this guy was a bit of an asshole?
“Fine. I’ll do it myself again!”
*55 minutes later…*
“Sh*t, it looks like I’ve been duped again!” I exclaimed after rinsing out the dye, having it let sit in my hair a little bit longer than the suggested time.
“I don’t know dude, I think light pink looks good on you.” The roommates sincerity was quite dubious.
“Aw, shut your pie-hole, you ass-face. You’re not helping any.”
“Well, John’s going to absolutely love your new look. Or, if you’re concerned he won’t, you can always try dying it again!”
Anyways, I could go on with dialogue like this, or I could cut more directly to the point. Turns out that I gotta learn a little life lesson that wintery day: did you know what there is no such thing as blonde hair day? It’s all bleach. Every last ----- product on the market that claims to be blond-ifying: bleach. Bleach. Bleach.
If I recall correctly, I know chemically treated my hair at least 3 times over the course of two days–though I think it might have been closer to 5. Five! Five bleach treatments–that can’t be good!
Let me tell ya, my hair was fried af. And the best part? I still wasn’t blonde. I had to argue with John to let me go back to working, in spite of my pinkish hair.
“Look, John, I’m pretty sure I’m developing scalp cancer with all the ----- bleach I’ve exposed it to. You gotta give me some credit for trying!”
“Hmm…I don’t know…”
“Dude, I know it’s technically still ‘pink’, but I don’t even have the benefit of it being punk-rock pink. It’s more like old-lady pink, or unintentionally effeminate pink. I don’t look cool. I look like a complete idiot. Please take pity on my soul!”
I’m pretty sure my pleas went something right along those lines. It must have worked too, because John finally relented and let me go back to work. Hooray.
Sure, I was going to be earning a sweet paycheck at the end of all of this, but at what cost?
Well, I’ll tell you ‘at what cost’: I would end up suffering the relentless ridicule of my peers and colleagues, for with such light pink tips–and eventually naturally blonde roots as well–you can only imagine what I looked like…
The point of the story is: I looked like a damned Valentine’s Bear. You know, the white ones with the lightest of pink tips? Yeah, I looked just like one of those.
Though that reminds me…Happy Semi-Late Valentine’s Day!
Ah, yes, therein lies this week’s true nugget of wisdom my friends: why suffer all those fools rushing in to your fave restaurant on the 14th or the weekend immediately preceding it? Be smart and celebrate V-Day a week later and I guarantee you that you will enjoy it ten times more.
Especially on account of the NFL switching to a 17-game regular season, and thereby pushing the Super Bowl back a week…right on top of Valentine’s time. You can’t help but wonder how many relationship disputes have arisen because of this inherent scheduling conflict. You know what? I’ll bet you the extended football season was a conspiracy put together by the American Association of Divorce Lawyers. Seriously, I would love to see the divorce statistics before and after that change was implemented.
But like I said, you can neatly side-step that whole marital fiasco by waiting a week or less to pop the cork on that pink champagne. (And no, that is not an overtly amorous euphemism…)
Content created on: 15/18 February 2023 (Weds/Sat)
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