Make You Fear’d The Beard

, , , , , | Working | April 9, 2018

(I go to get my hair cut at a local, low-cost hair salon. Nearly every time I go in there it’s a new cast of stylists. This is the first and only time I see a male stylist. It is very slow there today, with no other customers. He’s a nice and normal-seeming guy, and we’re having friendly conversation as he cuts my hair.)

Stylist: “Hey, you want me to take care of that part of your beard on your jaw that’s starting to curl under your ear?”

Me: “That’d be fine. I usually take care of that myself when I trim it, but you can save me time.”

Stylist: “Man, I just hate it when guys let that get out of control.”

Me: *thinking it’s not been anything I’ve ever noticed,but just going with the conversation* “Yeah, it can get out of control.”

Stylist: “I just want to pull on it when I see guys not taking care of that and yell, ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU LETTING THIS THING GROW? IT’S SO F****** DISGUSTING AND NASTY! QUIT BEING GROSS! CUT IT OFF!’ You know?”

Me: *stunned* “Yeah, sure. I know what you mean.”

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There’s No Business Like None Of Your Business

, , , , , , , | Right | March 29, 2018

(I work as a barista for a coffee chain, and like many others, we always ask customers for their names so that we can call out their orders. On this day, there are three of us working, and we all both make coffee AND man the registers. A guy in his mid-thirties wearing a suit walks in, yapping away on his phone. He cuts straight to the front of the line, ignoring the ten or so customers waiting patiently.)

Customer: *on phone* “Yeah, hold on.” *to me* “I’ll have—”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but there is a line. Please wait your turn.”

(He shoots me a dirty look, but goes to the back of the line, still on his phone. I continue taking orders as normal, and soon, [Customer] is back at the front of the line. Lo and behold, he’s still on his phone, and is looking down on me like I’m a piece of dirt. He can’t be more than 5’5”, though, and I’m almost 5’7”.)

Customer: *snootily* “Yeah, I want an iced latte. Make it quick. I have somewhere I need to be.”

(I have a reputation for being extremely sassy and sarcastic, so I manage to keep my calm and speak increasingly politely throughout the whole conversation.)

Me: “All right, sir. What size would you like that?”

Customer: *sighs, as if I should know this already* “TALL! And hurry up!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir, but is that for here or to go?”

Customer: *is silent*

Me: *waits* “Sir?”

Customer: *irate for no reason* “TO GO! GOD!”

Me: “A tall iced latte to go. That’ll be $2.95, sir. May I have a name for the order?”

Customer: *rifles through wallet, continues talking on phone*

Me: *assuming he didn’t hear me* “Sir? I need a name for your order.”

Customer: *sighs EXTREMELY loudly, rolls eyes and ignores me*

Me: *losing patience, because the line is growing, but still keeping a calm face* “Sir! I need a name for this order.”

Customer: *suddenly exploding* “NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, A**HOLE!”

(I plaster on a fake smile as he slaps a five-dollar bill down on the counter.)

Me: *handing him his change, in an overly sugary voice* “Here’s your change, sir. If you’ll just wait, your coffee should be ready in a couple of minutes.”

Customer: *huffs, goes and stands in a corner*

(I whip up his drink myself, since I don’t want my coworkers to have to deal with this guy. I notice he’s FINALLY finished his phone call, so I yell out his drink:)


(The whole store went quiet. The people in line burst out laughing and the customer went red. He stormed up to the counter, grabbed his drink, and flounced out of the store. I’ve never seen him since.)

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We’ll Take Off Like A Wrecking Ball…

, , , , | Right | March 14, 2018

(I’m a passenger on an airplane that’s about to take off. The flight attendant is explaining the safety procedures, and decides to make sure everyone is listening.)

Flight Attendant: “Wear your seatbelt low and tight across your hips, just like Miley Cyrus’s mini-skirt!”

(The elderly woman seated next to me cracked up laughing!)

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Kale Fail

, , , , , | Right | March 1, 2018

(I’m a 20-something female produce employee, stocking the bagged salads on our cooler wall. I spot an older gentleman, [Customer #1], looking a bit confusedly at the cut fruit next to me.)

Me: “Hi, can I help you find anything today?”

Custom *frowns at me* “Where’s the kale?”

Me: “Well, we have some right down to your right on the wall. I can show you—”

Customer #1: *cuts me off* “No, I don’t want to buy any; I just want to know where it is.”

Me: “Well, then. Um. That’s where it is. Oh! We also have baby kale right here.” *picks up a package of pre-washed baby kale from the box I was stocking*

Customer #1: *abruptly* “Can I have that?”

Me: “Oh, sure!” *begins to put it into his cart, as he makes no move to take it out of my hand*

Customer #1: “No, no, I meant, can I have some of that? I want to try it.”

Me: “Right, of course! No problem! Let me just open it up and—”

Customer #1: *cuts me off again* “Why are you still talking to me? Go away. I don’t talk to ugly girls.”

(I’m so shocked by this I just turn to walk away without responding. [Customer #2], a woman in her early 30s, has clearly overheard the whole exchange, and as I turn and walk away she meets my eyes and gives me the most incredulous and horrified look.)

Customer #2: “Oh, my God! I can’t believe he said that to you! What an a**hole! Can I hug you?”

([Customer #2] gave me a hug, which really did make the whole incident much better.)

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Where There’s Smoking, There’s A Fire

, , , , | Right | February 9, 2018

(I work at a call center that provides materials for smoking cessation.)

Caller: “I need products sent to me.”

Me: “Certainly! What’s the address?”

Caller: “Which address do you want? Mine or my mom’s?”

Me: “Wherever you’d like the products sent.”

Caller: *clearly frustrated and upset, gives an address* “Just send them there.”

Me: “No problem!”

(He calls in a few weeks later.)

Caller: “I’m still smoking, and it’s all your f****** fault!”

Me: “What seems to be the problem?”

Caller: “Mail gets stolen from my mailbox all the time, and you sent my patches here, and they got stolen! You sent them to my address, not my mom’s.”

Me: “I have [address] as the address for you. Is that where you wanted them sent?”

Caller: “NO! I wanted them sent to my mom’s address, but I didn’t give you that one because it would be like I didn’t have my own address. Like I wasn’t an adult. Like I was NOTHING! Thanks for helping people steal, you stupid b****!” *hangs up*

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