(I have been touching up a regular’s roots. Her hair has just been washed and I’m about to dry and style it.)

Regular: “That’s awful. You f***** it up!”

Me: “Actually, it only looks like that because it’s wet and hasn’t been treated it yet. Once it’s dried, it will look right.”

Regular: “No, you f***ed it up. You’re a penis. PENIS!”

(She then runs out of the salon, breathes on the window, and draws a penis in the condensation. She then runs off, in the middle of winter, with soaking wet hair. Three months later, she comes back to make another touchup appointment. The owner, not really remembering her by face, checks to see if I have, in fact, done her hair previously. I quickly remind him.)

Owner: “Oh, yes, you’re the penis woman.”

Regular: *blushing* “Yeah… Sorry about that.”

Owner: “What on earth was the problem? [My Name] says you’ve been coming here for years.”

Regular: *speaking very fast* “Well, my granny decided my mobile was making me a lesbian, and I’d just broken up with my boyfriend after he decided to cut his hair short. She threw my phone out of her bedroom window and locked me in her flat with her twelve black cats and one hairless one. I had to get the police, but my phone was f*****. She’s in a home now and her cats are dead. She’s just a crazy old b****. So, when I was here last time, I didn’t have my phone, and I guess I hadn’t really looked at what my hair looks like before it is done.”

Owner & Me: “…”

(My hair has fallen out from chemotherapy, so I go to a wig place to purchase one.)

Salon Lady: “What color was your hair?”

Me: “Red.”

Salon Lady: “Are you sure?”

Me: “I’m positive.”

Salon Lady: “Let me see your license.”

Me: *shows license*

Salon Lady: “You definitely had brown hair.”

Me: “I’m tired. I’ll have to come back later.”

(Apparently, they card you if you want a red wig.)

(My mom and I have double-booked with the same hair stylist because I need to have my hair colored. I’m sitting in the hall about eight feet from where my mom is having her hair cut while my dye processes when a woman barges in.)

Client: “You need to redo my hair!”

Stylist: “As you can see, I’m currently with two other clients. If you go back to the reception desk, the receptionist can make you an appointment for another time.”

Client: “No! You will fix your mistake! I specifically asked for permanent color and look!” *points at outgrown roots* “I have grey at the top!”

Stylist: “Yes, it looks like your hair has grown; it has been a month since I last saw you. Like I said, you can make an appointment—”

Client: “No! My hair doesn’t grow from the roots! It grows from the bottom! You’re lying! I want my money back!”

Stylist: “Uh… No. Everyone’s hair grows from the roots. Like I said before, I am with two other clients that have been double-booked. If you want to argue this out, please wait outside.”

(The woman eventually had to be escorted out by the owner of the salon – a sixty-year-old man – because she just kept screaming that her hair grows from the bottom and everyone was lying.)

(For my first job, I work at a tanning salon. I have had epilepsy my whole life. During the interview, I explain everything to the general manager and the procedures in case I have one at work. Well, the inevitable happens and I have a seizure when it is just me and one coworker, with a store full of customers. One of the customers calls 911 and I wake up surrounded by the fire department. Naturally, I have to take off for a few days to recover. This is the conversation between me and the general manager as soon as I return for my next shift.)

GM: “[My Name], I need to see you in my office.”

(We sit down and she hands me a piece of paper.)

GM: “You need to sign this incident report.”

(I look over it carefully and sign it at the bottom. She looks at me sort of sideways and then continues.)

GM: “Why didn’t you just not come into work that day?”

Me: “Well, it’s not like I woke up and knew it was going to happen. I only have about ten minutes to one hour of warning. And I did call you almost exactly an hour before and told you how I was feeling. You told me to stay.”

GM: “Yeah, I didn’t think it was actually going to happen.”

Me: “Um, okay? Then what do you want me to do about that?”

GM: “You need to get a hold of yourself. I can’t have you seizing out in front of everybody and scaring away my customers. Did you skip your medicine or something?”

(I start to choke up and begin to cry because I can’t believe she just said something so rude, as if I can just control my disability whenever I feel like it.)

Me: “No, I didn’t skip my medicine. These things happen like clockwork every single month regardless, and you were fully aware of that at my very first interview. If I could control it like you seem to think I can, I would never have another seizure again. I can’t believe you just said something like that to me.”

GM: “Oh, don’t be so sensitive. Dry your tears and go clock in.”

(I just looked at her before I walked out of her office. This created a permanent wedge between me and the general manager. Neither one of us ever spoke of it again, and I didn’t have another seizure at work for the rest of the time I worked there. I eventually quit on the spot one day because I couldn’t handle the way she talked down to me like I was some insubordinate. Who would really say something like that to someone?!)

This story is part of our Epilepsy roundup.

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(I work from home with a toddler and I do the majority of the housework, as my husband works a lot, too. As things get pretty busy, I never get around to haircuts, and I probably only have one or two a year. Because of this, I also tend to just go to any hairdresser rather than committing to a single one. I am nine months pregnant and have just finished having a haircut. Even before the baby, my schedule was pretty hectic.)

Hairdresser: “You look amazing. So great. It’s a great cut.”

Me: “Thanks.”

(Internally, I’m saying that I hate it, but I honestly don’t care because I wear it up all the time and I am super pregnant.)

Hairdresser: “So, do you want to book in again? Let’s say four weeks?”

Me: *gesturing to very pregnant belly* “No, thank you. I don’t know what my schedule will be like. I’ll just call and make an appointment when I want it.”

Hairdresser: “I can make it six weeks.”

Me: “No, that’s cool. Honestly, I often go six months between cuts as I get pretty busy. I’ll just sort it out when I get to it.”

(She gasps at me saying six months, but she just smiles and processes my payment. Time goes on, along comes the baby, and I have just gotten out of the hospital when I get a voicemail asking me to call the hairdresser back. I call out of curiosity and another hairdresser explains she’s confirming my appointment for my haircut the next day.)

Me: *laughing* “No, I don’t have an appointment.”

Hairdresser #2: “There’s a cancellation fee if—“

Me: *laughing more* “Yeah, no. You’re a hairdresser, not a medical specialist, and you cannot charge someone to cancel an appointment that they didn’t make.”

Hairdresser #2: “I can see on my file here you made this appointment when you were here seeing [Hairdresser], and you’re booked in for every six weeks until next year.”

Me: “Have fun with that. I have haircuts once every six-ish months. That appointment I had with [Hairdresser] was the first I’ve ever had there, and she did an awful job. I most definitely didn’t arrange appointments for her to ruin my hair on a monthly basis. Good luck charging me.”

(I hung up. I received a text message later confirming my cancellation of my appointment.)