Baseballs And Sticks

(I’m getting my hair cut. My stylist and I are the only people in the salon. A well-dressed lady in her 60s walks in, stares at us, and sits down. My stylist calls out a greeting. No response. After about five minutes, the lady gets up, glares at us, and stomps out without saying a word.)

Stylist: “Who was that?”

Me: “No idea. I thought she was your next appointment.”

Stylist: “I’ve never seen her before in my life!”

Me: “I’m glad she left. Did you see the look she gave us?”

Stylist: “Ah, I don’t worry about people like that. She’s got a stick where it doesn’t belong, you know?”

(I laugh and she resumes cutting my hair. The owner of the beauty supply store next door comes running into the salon.)

Owner: “[Stylist]! Do you know who that was that just walked out of here?”

Stylist: “Nope, can’t say I do. Why?”

Owner: “She just came next door and complained. That’s Mrs. [Vaguely Familiar Last Name]!”

Stylist: “Who?”

Owner: “She’s married to the owner of [Baseball Team]!”

Stylist: “How was I supposed to know that? [My Name], did you know that?”

Me: “Nope. I root for [Local Baseball Team], not the Evil Empire.”

Owner: “You didn’t take care of her!”

Stylist: “I have a client right now!” *gestures to me*

Owner: “You should’ve taken care of her right away!”

Me: “Excuse me?!”

Stylist: “I’m not kicking one of my regular clients out for an old lady with an attitude problem! Go back to your store!”

(The store owner walks out, muttering to herself.)

Stylist: “Told you. Sticks where they don’t belong.”