Monday, July 9, 2012


I have many kinds of anger:
  • The kind that I forget after 10 seconds.
  • The kind that takes a day to sink in, which is very frustrating especially when, the moment it sinks in, it's not relevant to talk about anymore.
  • The kind that makes me create imaginary arguments in my head in which you will win and I will hate you more.
  • The kind that makes me want to make you realize how stupid you are by using extreme sarcasm and snide remarks that you probably won't even understand.
  • The kind that frustrates me a lot that it makes me tear up.
  • The kind that makes me want to go Super Saiyan on you.
  • And the kind that makes my blood boil up inside and make me want to secretly take a picture of you and post it on the Internet because I will probably hate you forever. FOREVER.
And do you want to know what makes me that angry?

If you guessed slow walkers, you're wrong. Because slow walkers belong to the first level. Unless I'm PMS-ing. Then I would probably go Super Saiyan on slow walkers.

Okay not that intense. Just... Okay. Maybe on the inside.

But one of the things that make me extremely mad is BAD CUSTOMER SERVICE.

I know it's like I'm an asshole magnet that I should be used to it already.

Let me tell you a story about the day I met:

The Witchster: The Witch-Monster Hybrid.

It was a Saturday afternoon when I decided to go to my kind-of favorite salon to get hair straightening, hot oil, and a haircut. I have always been too lazy to iron or blow dry my hair every morning so I have it straightened once a year. I also wanted 3 inches cut from my hair just to get the dry ends out.

Most importantly, I wanted to relax, as it had been a stressful week.

I walked in the salon and asked the PMS-faced receptionist, "Is Michelle here?" Michelle was my favorite person in that salon. "She has resigned," the receptionist answered, uninterested.

Resigned. Shit.

It was like an omen. A dark cloud swept over me.

"What can we do for you?" She asked. She looked pissed, as if I did something to her in high school and she could not move on. "Hair straightening, hot oil, and a haircut," I said in a friendly way, ignoring her expression.

"Is it okay if I assign you to a different hairdresser?" She asked.

I hesitated. "Okay."

I got introduced to a woman with a fake friendly smile. She called me "Ma'am Net." Fuck. That alone should have made me run for my life, but I stayed.

An ominous music started playing in my head.

"I want the same haircut as I have now, layered, V-shaped, but 3 inches shorter." I instructed. She said yes. Then I added, "And please just straighten the roots, since the ends aren't frizzy." The woman nodded.

She assessed my hair and told me how much it cost and I paid.

Then she started her evil work. She did not follow my instruction of straightening just the roots. I was shedding so much hair. I knew something was up. The witch needed my hair for her voodoo doll. Or for something else.

The sense of foreboding increased as the strange woman worked on my hair. I was so close to having a heart attack so I tweeted my worries. Twitter can save people from heart attack and possible psychosis. Every one knew that. Soon, the world will not need doctors anymore. Just Twitter.

Sorry, future doctors.

These are just a few of my tweets that day.

No one cared. I was alone in this battle.

She shampooed and hot oiled my hair, then she rinsed it again. The way she was rinsing my hair was weird. Her boobs were in my face. THE HORROR.

I'll be scarred for life.

I tried my best to calm down, I swear I did. Then she asked the most horrifying question ever. "Would you like a straight haircut?"

You've gotta be fucking kidding me.

"Oh no!" I said, panicked. "You can't do the haircut I told you?"

"Of course I can. I will make your hair beautiful."

Then the haircutting began.

She parted my hair down the middle and stretched it in front of my face and chopped three inches off of it, one side after the other. Then she went on cutting the bangs.

"Wait," I said, forcing calmness. "You're only gonna cut 3 inches in total. Not 3 inches in every cut."

*Cue cinematic horror sound effect*

"Oh no, that's it." She said.

I was shocked. "That's it? This is the haircut I paid for? I could done this myself even if I was drunk!"

She was rather shocked that I did not like what she did. She started being defensive. "You told me you wanted a V-shaped haircut!"

"I did but not like this." The cut she did was not even close to what I told her.

She lost it. She morphed from being an ordinary human being to a monster.

"The hair you wanted wasn't possible, and it wasn't good. I gave you a better haircut! Look!" She exclaimed.

I explained that the cut I asked her was the haircut I always get.

She started making some sort of a scene, asking other hairdressers to give her a mirror so I can see what she did from the back.

"You don't need to do that. You should've just done what I instructed you."

"Okay!" She said. "I'll cut it again!"

"No way I'll ever let you touch my hair again."

Then I left. I left the Witchster and her lair. There was no point in staying. The other hairdressers were obviously scared of what she can do so they decided to stay out of it. I was a customer but none of them came to my rescue. She was a monster, obviously. A monster who cuts hair, burns it, and sniffs the fumes. Hair was her bath salts. I just knew. She will eat brains soon.

I had another haircut to fix the damage. But not from the Witchster. Not from the strange woman who possibly burns hair and smokes it.