To recap yesterday: three doctors failed to make Jane’s hair grow again, but a hair stylist’s offhand remark got it growing once more. And Jane decided to thank her…somehow.
The last time I wrote a positive customer-service letter, I was stupid. I mean, more stupid than usual. I left enough identifiers in the letter that they knew exactly who I was, and ever since then, when I go to that place of business, it’s awkward. Because they know. They don’t even want to look me in the eye. So this time, instead of giving mere thanks and a lifetime of awkwardness (especially since it looks like I’ll need to get regular haircuts again in the future) I’d give them something tangible.
Flowers. The stylists’ job was beauty, and flowers are beautiful. I’d bring them flowers.
I waited for a Friday because on a Friday they’d have customers, and they’d have customers on Saturday too. They could brag. They could show off. I’d leave a tag on the flowers so other customers would know a customer had been pleased with them. Right? Right. Go.
On the way between the flower place and the hair place, I nearly chickened out, trembling at the red light (Angelborough has three stoplights and three hair salons, just so you know) and kept telling myself “What would a brave person do? A brave person would deliver them.”
Not so much. I kept thinking maybe I should have given the florist ten bucks to do the delivery. But no. A brave person would walk in, say thank you, and leave the flowers. I would be brave.
The first thing that went wrong? No one was in the hair salon. No customers, that is. I opened the door and both stylists looked up at me.
Looked? No, they glared. They glared with a challenge at this woman wearing a baseball cap and holding a floral arrangment.
This wasn’t supposed to happen — they were supposed to be cutting and styling and weaving and dyeing and creating beauty, and I was supposed to bravely march in, bravely leave the thing on the desk, and sneak out without talking to anyone. Bravely.
Instead these two women glared at me, clearly not of their tribe, a customer in the middle of doing something weird. They were tall, slender, blonde, made-up, and stylish. I am…well, none of those things. But I am brave. So I forced myself to leave the entryway and approach. “I wanted to bring these to say thank you.”
They kept glaring at me. I said, “One of you helped me get my hair growing again — ” (a third stylist appeared from the back, and I turned to her) ” — I think it was you, and I just wanted to say thanks.”
I put it on the desk. One of them stopped glaring and said, “Oh. Um…they’re beautiful.”
I’m not beautiful. But my hair is growing again, and I thought they ought to have some beauty too, right? But brave or not, I couldn’t say it. So instead I smiled, then bravely turned my tail and fled.
They have no idea who I am, this weirdo who showed up with flowers and a frizzy halo of new hair stuffed under a baseball cap. And that’s the way I want it. They probably laughed their heads off after I left, but that’s okay. They know I appreciate them, and as for me, I went home to continue growing hair.