(It’s my third day, and my colleagues are telling me stories about bad customers and workers. One of my floor colleagues is Turkish but speaks perfect Dutch — the local language — with an accent.)

Turkish Colleague: “This guy is the biggest racist you’ll ever meet. The moment I open my mouth, he screams, ‘GET AWAY FROM ME, TURKISH PIECE OF S***!’ He’s banned from the restaurant, but he isn’t getting the message and keeps– Speak of the devil, there he is.”

Manager: “I’ll go tell him.”

(I’m part Russian, and I normally speak without a trace of an accent, but I can mimic one perfectly.)

Me: “Boss, might I try?”

Manager: “Sure. If you think you can get him out of here.”

(I go up to the man and start speaking Russian.)

Man: “SPEAK GOD-DANG DUTCH, YOU A**HOLE!”

Me: *with the most comical and thick accent I can do* “Very sorry, sir. I forget I should do Dutch. Table for one?”

Man: “F*** you!” *storms out*

Manager: “That went better than expected.”

Me: “Honestly, I didn’t expect him to leave. I was about to call [Turkish Colleague] to step in if he wanted someone else.”

(The dry cleaner where I work does onsite alterations with a seamstress on duty. The various sewing machines are clearly visible from the outside.)

Customer: “Oh my! You do sewing!”

(I get this often, and it’s usually from customers confirming said fact or expressing that they are pleased that we do it. My coworker is sewing a garment now.)

Customer: “Do you have a seamstress here?”

Me: “Yes, she is right there.”

(Keep in mind that the customer has looked at her.)

Customer: *to [Coworker]* “So, you do sewing?”

Coworker: “Yes, ma’am, all types.”

Customer: “Where are you from?”

Coworker: “Poland. I immigrated 30 years ago!”

Customer: “Well, are you sure you can handle simple tasks?”

Coworker: *looks at me, unsure what to do*

Me: *getting angry* “Ma’am, her birth country has nothing to do with her exemplary sewing skills.”

Customer: “There is no reason for you to get nasty with me.”

Me: “Ma’am, there is no reason to question her abilities based on her country of origin.”

Customer: “Well! I am new to the area and wanted to find a dry cleaner, but I see I will not be using this one!

Me & Coworker: *almost at the same time* “That’s fine!”

(I’m the manager of the plumbing department at a hardware store. I’m also female, which has lead to some customers thinking I couldn’t possibly know anything about plumbing. Often, I pull out some knowledge so that they actually ASK their questions instead of grumpily sending “the girl” away. One day I walk up to one of our customers in the PVC pipe-fittings area. He’s holding an object wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.)

Me: “Good morning! Is there something I can help you with?”

Middle-Aged Man: “No. You wouldn’t know the answer. I can find it.”

Me: “Well, sir, you’re looking through our toilet flanges. Do you know if you have 3″ or 4″ PVC? Are you replacing a cast iron flange?”

Middle-Aged Man: “No! It’s not iron! It’s plastic!”

Me: “Okay, so do you know if it’s 3″ or 4″? We have one right here that will fit either, if you’re not sure!”

Middle-Aged Man: “No, that one won’t fit! It doesn’t match this one!”

(He holds up the item in the grocery bag. It’s a used toilet flange. Toilet flanges are what sit underneath the drain from your toilet. All of your waste passes through it.)

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. I have to ask you to take that item outside. It’s a biohazard.”

Middle-Aged Man: “No! They said I could bring parts inside! They said it was okay!”

Me: “Sir. We sell food here. That is a biohazard. It has been in contact with human waste. You have to take it outside.”

Middle-Aged Man: “They told me it was okay to bring parts in. Where is your manager?”

Me: “Sir. I am the manager. You still have to take it outside. Now.”

(At this point, he storms over to the Guest Services desk. I calmly follow him.)

Middle-Aged Man: “I NEED THIS HERE TO MATCH IT UP. IT CAME FROM MEXICO. I WRAPPED IT IN A PLASTIC BAG SO IT’S FINE, AND YOU SAID I COULD BRING IN MY PARTS!”

Me: *staying calm* “Sir, you can bring in a part, but the poop has to stay outside.”

(I work in a game room, and one of my main jobs is to help the customers pick out their prizes, show them their options, and be generally friendly. Every once in a while, though, people take offense to what is recommended.)

Me: “All right! Y’all have [amount]. What would you like?”

Customer: “What do you have that my toddler can play with?”

Me: “There’s these cases, and [prize] on the wall. Oh! We also have a small Dora the Explorer basketball!”

Customer: *looking like I just asked her to convert to Satanism* “Dora?! I have a son! What, does he look like a girl to you?” *lifts her child for me to see, who is no more than a year old*

Me: “Well, ma’am, I honestly just assumed Dora was a unisex thing. Plus, infants really don’t seem to have a sense of things like that.”

(The woman had nothing to say to that and turned to her boyfriend and made conversation, ignoring me for the rest of the encounter.)

(I tell the stylist I want my hair really short and show her a couple photos of the style I want. My hair length is at the middle of my back.)

Stylist: *pointing to the hair washing station* “I need to wet your hair down good, first.”

Me: “Um, no? I want to give it to [hair donation charity], so I just need it cut above the hair elastic. Also, my hair is really thick and it does better when cut dry.”

Stylist: *insistent* “Honey, I need to wet your hair to cut off that much.”

(I sigh as I go sit down, and she proceeds to not only wet my hair but shampoo and condition it, as well, which I know will cost extra.)

Me: “Why are you washing it? I thought you were just wetting it?”

Stylist: *snappily* “I know what I’m doing.”

(I sigh because she’s already started, I’ve got the money to cover the difference, and I’ve had a long day so I don’t feel like arguing. After she finishes, I get into the chair, and she asks me to show her the pictures again. She realizes how much hair I’m cutting off and gives me a surprised look.)

Stylist: “Are you sure, honey?”

Me: *nods* “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve had it cut much shorter than that before.”

Stylist: “Is your husband okay with that?” *to my husband* “Are you okay with her cutting all her hair off like this?”

(My husband ignores her, because he’s playing with our toddler and his stuffed dinosaur.)

Me: “He only came in because the baby doesn’t like waiting in the car.”

Stylist: *louder* “What do you think of her cutting her hair off so short?”

Husband: *glances up* “Eh, whatever. It’s hair. It’ll grow back.”

Stylist: “You might want a picture of it before I cut it all off.”

(He ignores her and she puts my hair in a ponytail, which she then snips off and tries handing to me.)

Me: “Er, I don’t want to hold that. It’s wet.”

(She sighs and lays it on her workstation, then goes back to cutting my hair. As she cuts, she keeps trying to tell my husband he shouldn’t let me cut my hair so short, and asking why he is letting me cut it off so short and why I want my hair so short. My husband ignores her, and I tell her that short hair is easier to maintain. Finally, she finishes and gives me the soggy ponytail, then leads me over to the register to pay.)

Stylist: “Your total is $38 for a wash and cut.”

(I give her my debit card. She runs it and then passes my husband the receipt, which he gives to me. I fill out the tip line and sign the receipt, and we leave.)

Husband: “So, what did you tip her?”

Me: “$2.”

Husband: “Ouch! Why so low?”

Me: “She kept asking you how she should cut my hair; that’s why.”

Husband: “Fair point.”

(I will NOT be going back to that salon. EVER.)