I have perfected putting forth minimal effort towards things that simply don’t intrigue me. The tricky thing is, I can go from completely intrigued with a topic for two minutes, dry it out, then hang it up never to be thought of again. This might have something to do with being Bi Polar II, but it’s becoming incredibly annoying.
Cosmetology school was my biggest mistake; though, I was informed by my admissions office that the graduation rate was very low. Regardless, I wasn’t passionate about it. Make up was what I really wanted to do. I had never picked up a curling iron in my entire life, but the point was to teach me, right?
Turns out, it really helps if you’ve been working with hair since you could first walk. Every other girl in my class had grandmothers or mothers who owned salons; basically grew up with flat irons in their crib. That was my first clue in that I made a huge mistake.
I grew up writing.
Of course, the school I chose to attend, Aveda, managed to justify a $20k tuition. If I recall correctly, it was $10/min you were clocked in.
I went for ten weeks, racked up twenty-five hundred in student loan debt, and then dipped. This doesn’t even include the cost of all the required supplies I was stuck with, which was about fifteen hundred. As soon as I got home the day I dropped out, I shaved down all my Debbie and Catherine mannequins (the things had fucking names) till they looked like Sid from Toy Story, and proceeded to cry until my eyes stung.
A huge factor to me not powering through my commitment was the women I was to be working with.
During my time at Aveda, I was one of the two receptionists in a run down salon with minimal traffic. It wasn’t exactly the grandiose career Aveda made it out to be. Most days were slow except the weekends; where I’d watch stylists ten hours straight on their feet, client after client, receiving ten to twelve dollar tips.
To be clear, those who wait tables have the possibility of making ten times that number off one table.
The fight for walk-in customers was tug-of-war, and I was the rope. Without going into too much detail, I was called an air-head in front of new clients, pushed numerous times, my things were stolen/hidden (my car keys were stolen, as were things out of my car), and was downright treated like garbage.
It wasn’t just my job, either. Most of the people I was schooling with, including the educators, were just as catty, if not worse. I had three friends, total, who I rode the train with; who also seemed to be the only people who didn’t compulsively create drama.
We did seem to be the target of a lot of hate.
Blondie had it the worst, unfortunately.
Do you ever have the impulse to squeeze a cute puppy like Lenny from Of Mice & Men? Well, I’m Lenny and Blondie was a bunny. I was staring at her one day and something came over me; the need to whack her on the head with a bottle of hair creme.
She didn’t talk to me the entire ride home…
Anyways, she was too beautiful to not be a target of horrendously insecure women. The girl was 5’1″, born a blonde dwarf, given growth shots, and virtually perfect.
If she was a minute late walking into the class, the teacher would Send her home. If her black clothes seemed even slightly black-blue, the teacher would send her home. If her tights were too revealing, the teacher would send her home. Bibi, our introduction stylist, had it out for the poor girl. After Blondie would be sent home, another student would come waltzing in with the bluest of black, sexiest tights you’d have ever seen and get to stay with a warning.
It came to a point where I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing that I was learning calculus for a career that was never, ever going to be tip-based, break-less, and had a code-of-conduct. So that’s exactly what I did!
Though, I did end up leaving an hourly income job for multiple tip-based, break-less jobs with even cattier people, I’m officially a full-time student at a local community college.
I’ve never been more proud of myself.