Bad Hair Day – The New Age of Customer Service

When did insults and criticism become part of customer service?

A day at the salon used to be a fun, relaxing, social event.  Getting pampered for a few hours while cheerfully chit-chatting with the stylist, coming out rejuvenated both inside and out…  That’s what I really needed.  Unfortunately, customer service is not what it used to be. 

You know that feeling you sometimes get when you walk into new situation and something just doesn’t quite feel right?  Yeah, you know the one.  If you feel it, RUN AWAY!

Trust your gut.

Why are we always so reluctant to listen to that little voice in our head? How many really bad experiences do we need to go through before we learn our lesson?

Apparently at least one more time for me.

I should have known better but I really wanted to get my hair cut, and trips into town were difficult these days.  My hair had been growing out for at least 6 months.

Trying a new salon has always been a traumatic process. I’ve only ever found a couple of stylists that I can honestly say I like. My all-time favorite is of course all the way in Japan. Having recently moved back up to my hometown, I was faced with the daunting task of choosing a salon from the thousands of options available in the big city.

My ordeal started with a salon that wasn’t open at the time it was supposed to be, and that sold Groupon vouchers but wouldn’t provide the service advertised without an undisclosed extra fee.

Retreat & Reassess

That is what I should have done.

A word to the wise: don’t make decisions when you are feeling desperate. It usually doesn’t end well.

A quick map search revealed that there were two other salons within walking distance. One was bright and cheery but they didn’t have any openings. So I went to the other.

If you watch horror movies you know that as the main character approaches the climactic danger spot, there is always some horrible spine-tingling music screeching in the background. Now, if you heard music like that, would you seriously keep walking up to the house? No! You’d run away.

I should have heard the music.

I stood outside this salon for a few minutes. It looked closed. I couldn’t see any lights on and the neon OPEN sign was dark. Then I saw a woman walking around.  She glanced at me and continued about her business.

Not very welcoming, I thought.

Did I talk about that gut feeling that something just isn’t right?  Yeah…

Heed the Signs

Having apparently lost my last hair of sense, I opened the door and walked in.

There were a number of customers inside at various stages of their treatments. The woman I’d seen earlier continued to wander around doing nothing of purpose that I could see.

Nobody noticed me.

I was about to turn tail and head back out the door when one woman looked up from the other side of the room where she was washing someone’s hair.

“Hello?”

It was definitely a question.  Not a welcome. She wanted to know what I was doing there. Because, there could be a million reasons a person would walk into a hair salon…

Annoyed that I wouldn’t shout my business across the eerily silent salon, she strode over to the front desk.

I want to say that she asked “What can I do for you?” or “Can I help you?” but I feel like there was nothing so courteous as that. Evidently my ideas of customer service were as outdated as my hairstyle.

I stammered awkwardly that I’d like a haircut if there was an opening. She said that she could in about half an hour.  She called out to Wandering-Lady and asked if she had time for a cut, and was told no.  30 minutes, she repeated to me.  20  maybe. I agreed, and she walked off.

Leaving me standing there like an idiot.

The creepy horror movie music in my head had now morphed into blaring alarm bells.

Abort! ABORT!!

From this point on, I have to take full personal responsibility for everything. My mind was literally screaming at me to get out. Nobody had taken my name or number. I wasn’t offered a seat while I waited. Wandering-Lady was now walking around eating a banana.

I actually walked out the door and down the sidewalk a few yards. It was my chance to escape and I knew it.

I should have kept going, but I didn’t. Instead I acted like I’d made a quick phone call, then like the idiot I truly am, walked back in.

Slowly making my way deeper into the salon, I finally decided to sit at the table.  There was nowhere else that looked like a waiting area.

No sooner had I sat down than Rude-Woman asked me if I needed my hair washed.  That’s right.  She asked if I needed it washed. I expect that type of question at the 15-minutes per customer instant haircut shops at the mall, not a full-service boutique salon like this.

As she washed my hair, she commented on the gray.  “I can get rid of that right here in the sink,” she said offhandedly, and then went on to talk about how she colors her grays once a week. Then she dropped the subject and kissed another customer goodbye.

That’s When Things Got Bad

I don’t even know how to explain the rest of the experience. She moved me to a cut station and asked what my plan was. I said that I wasn’t sure, but would probably just go with my usual. I pulled up a picture on my phone.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

My stylist, who up to that point seemed mildly rude and decidedly distracted by everyone else in the salon, suddenly transformed into an evil demoness. She didn’t simply disagree with my chosen hairstyle, she was highly offended by it, and thought I should be as well.

She let loose an endless tirade of expletives and insulting criticism for the style and the fact that I obviously had been doing this unforgivable disservice to my hair for some time.  After vehemently refusing to do that to my hair she made sure that no doubt remained in my mind that I was a complete idiot for having ever considered it. At the same time, she interjected her own rant with offers to do it if you really want me to, only to follow those with more criticism.

Don’t Cross the Angry Woman With Scissors

At one point I  tried to placate her by asking her opinion about coloring my hair. Silly me, I thought that if I deferred to her obvious superior sense of style, she might lay off the insults. My question was struck aside like an annoying housefly. All the while she vigorously and aggressively sheared at my embarrassment of a mane of hair.

I am sure she was high on the power-surge associated with anger.

My head was virtually spinning when she declared herself done.  Her masterpiece of a hairstyle, which she boasted was modern and youthful (my chosen style would have been acceptable if I were 90 years old apparently), was a heavy bob just below my ears.

A bob.

The one hairstyle I have never ever wanted for myself.

If I wasn’t so terrified, I might have cried.

On my way out, the demon stylist handed me her card and curtly told me to text her if I wanted to take care of the color.

I hope she didn’t see me cringe as the last of my blood flowed out of my face.

Later I glanced at the card in my wallet.  Master Stylist – Owner Operator it read. At least I can rest easy knowing that I was taken care of by the best.  Perhaps insults and criticism are part of the new customer service. 

I really need to learn to listen to my gut – and the scary music.