 Owner lets stylist go due to neglectful work ethic
Inspired by a hair-nista from Illinois
Fast Freddie never had her mind on the task at hand. On more than several occasions, fellow stylists had to remind her to slow down when working on someone's hair. No one wanted a "fast" weave, or a "fast" relaxer, or a "fast" cut. Clients wanted to feel as though their hair was the central focus of the moment—especially if scissors or chemicals were involved.
But Freddie never paid heed to any of their advice.
Today was like any other day. She had just finished giving a client a relaxer when she glanced at her watch: 2:10 p.m. She needed to pick up her children in 20 minutes, and the school was across town. On an easy day, she could make the trip in 15 flat. But today, with the extra road construction, it might take 30 minutes. Recently, teachers had firmly informed her that they were not a babysitting service. To be quite frank, Freddie had grown tired of the cocked eyebrows that she received every morning when she dropped her children off to school.
"Hey Brenda," Freddie called to the shampoo girl. "Listen, I gotta go. Can you handle this for me?"
Maxine never looked up, but the mousy young shampoo technician stared at Freddie petrified. "What do you mean, ‘handle?'"
"I mean, can you rinse her, shampoo her, and start her roller set? I should be back to finish. I need to get my kids," Freddie said while smoothly slipping on her jacket, grabbing her purse and heading out of the door.
"I'm itching," Maxine said.
Brenda looked at Maxine, then back at Freddie, but she was gone.
"Excuse me, but is someone going to rinse this relaxer out? I'm itching," Maxine said a little firmer.
"Yes. I will," Brenda said. "Come over to the bowls."
The client did as she was instructed. Brenda got out her shampoos along with an instruction manual. Maxine saw the book. Her mouth dropped.
"Um, where's Freddie?"
"Oh, she had to pick up her children from school," Brenda said evenly as she flipped pages.
"So, do you know what you're doing," Maxine pensively asked.
Before Brenda had a chance to answer, salon owner, Terry, stepped in from the back of the shop. She had just come back from lunch.
"Hey everybody," Terry announced cheerily, but her mood switched when she saw Brenda fumbling with a book in her hand and a relaxer on a client's head. Terry quickly grabbed a towel and handed it to Brenda. "Go get lunch. In fact, take the rest of the day off. I've got this."
"Terry..."
"I know. Don't worry about it. See you tomorrow," Terry said, and without another word, she began to work on Maxine's hair.
Ninety minutes later, Maxine walked out with bouncing and behaving hair. Twenty minutes after that, Freddie rolled in.
"Hey, Terry." Freddie said as she eyed a very calm Terry sitting at Freddie's naked station. All of her tools, products and other personal knickknacks were packed in a brown box. "Where is everybody, and why is my stuff packed?"
"I sent Brenda home and I finished Maxine," Terry said. "Today was not a good day. You know why? I saw my unlicensed shampoo girl attempt to rinse out chemicals from your client's hair. Had my lunch meeting not been cut short, your client might have suffered hair loss like Naomi Campbell.
"But I wasn't gone that long," Freddie said. "Brenda's watched us do this hundreds of times. She was fine."
"Watching and being licensed are two different things, Freddie," Terry said handing her the box. "Just because someone's ‘watched' a heart surgery doesn't mean I want her opening me up. I don't wish to be sued for your sloppiness. You've been warned about not keeping your mind on your work. I can't afford to have you stay."
Reluctantly, Freddie takes the box. "I helped you build this place."
"And that's why I'm not going to let you tear it apart," Terry opened the door for her first permanent stylist, who took a last look then sadly left.
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