Introduction | p. ix |
Unsupportive Support | |
The Hairdresser: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow | p. 3 |
The Manicurist/Waxer: Ripping Her Right Out of Your Life | p. 16 |
The Trainer: Big Pain, No Gain | p. 25 |
The Therapist: We Need to Talk | p. 40 |
Sticky People, Sticky Situations | |
The Neighbor: When You Don't Love Thy Neighbor | p. 57 |
The Houseguest: Mi Casa Is Not Su Casa | p. 67 |
Your Kid's Friend's Parents: Not Meeting the Parents | p. 78 |
The Landlord: Putting the "Slum" in "Slumlord" | p. 90 |
The Friend: Best Friends for Never | p. 107 |
Taking Care of Business | |
The Assistant: That Will Be All | p. 119 |
The Co-Worker: Mind Your Own Ps and Cubicles | p. 129 |
The Boss: Stop Being So Bossy | p. 138 |
The Carpooler: The Occupancy of This Vehicle Is High Enough | p. 152 |
Home Improvements | |
Your Family: Family Unfair | p. 163 |
The Nanny/Babysitter: The Final Time Out | p. 176 |
The Housekeeper: Cleaning House | p. 190 |
The Roommate: No Room for You! | p. 203 |
Doctors, Lawyers, Indian Chiefs | |
The Contractor: Putting Out a Contract on Your Contractor | p. 221 |
The Accountant: Take Your Money and Run | p. 233 |
The Lawyer: Holding Her in Contempt | p. 243 |
The Doctor: It's Time for a Second Opinion | p. 255 |
The Mechanic: Putting the Brakes on Your Mechanic | p. 266 |
Dumping Your Author | p. 279 |
Acknowledgments | p. 283 |
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Chapter One
The Hairdresser
Signs It's Time to Dump Your Hairdresser
Your smock is covered in dandruff . . . and it's not yours.
With each snip of her scissors, she grunts like a female tennis player.
She's still stuck in the '80s. Who wants a perm?
When you walk in, her last appointment is leaving in tears.
You go in for a bang trim and leave missing an eyebrow.
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
While attending college in New York City, I got my hair cut at a trendy little boutique in the East Village. My hairdresser, Gina, was a plain Jane from Staten Island, and that was exactly what I liked about her. Unlike a lot of my previous hairstylists—who pretended to listen while they plotted to give me (usually successfully) the haircut they wanted—Gina actually listened to me and gave me the cut I asked for—which is why I was devastated when she told me that she was leaving for six months to go on a spiritual journey to India.
Within days of returning from her trip, I made an appointment at her apartment. Graduation was coming up and I wanted a new look. I raced up her stairwell two steps at a time, excited for the hairstyle that would take me to the next stage of my life: my career.
As I reached the top of her staircase, I nearly choked on the heavy cloud of incense smoke that invaded my lungs. The smell of Nag Champa overwhelmed me. Waving it away, I pushed open Gina's front door and entered what I can only describe as some kind of medieval dungeon filled with giant candelabras, enormous crosses, leering gargoyles, and black sheets draped over huge gothic columns. I should have turned around and left then; the smell of incense makes me want to vomit (I already had, just a tiny bit). Not to mention that goth scares me. It was so dark that I could barely see my feet—and if I couldn't see, how would Gina be able to cut my hair?
"Hello?" I shouted. Out of the darkness came Gina, fully covered in piercings, hair in long dreads, and wearing a black, free-flowing, Stevie Nicksstyle dress. Who was this woman? This was not my Gina from Staten Island—Coney Island, perhaps. What exactly did they teach her in that ashram? She made her move toward me.
"Jodyne! My queen! At last! I've waited my whole life for you!" Then she broke into a Mary J. Blige song. "My life. My life. My life. In the sunshine. If you look at my life, and see what I've seen." India had apparently turned Gina into a hippie goth—a gippie?—but that still didn't explain why she was singing Mary J. Blige to me. "Let's go, mamma!" she said as she grabbed my hand and led me to her sink.
My whole plan of talking to her first, going over my hair—the style, the number of inches and layers—all of it washed right down that sink of hers. I completely shut down. To make matters worse, I also couldn't see, because I had made the mistake of wearing my glasses instead of my contacts that day. Gina had taken my glasses and set them on top of one of her scary gargoyles. I was having a total out-of-body experience. I watched her cut my hair, was engaged in conversation, yet I don't remember anything I said. What I do remember is her saying things like, "I totally get it. I so know what to do with you. Oh, I just love giving people new looks. You're gonna love it!"—and then another Mary J. Blige song. "Ohhhhh, sweet thing. Don't you know you're my everything. Woe oh, hooooh, sweet thing."
Fast-forward twenty minutes. My smock came off, and I was staring at myself in the mirror. All I could see was a blurry cloud of incense smoke. I frantically grabbed my glasses, almost knocking the gargoyle off the table (which I suspect was actually a coffin). "Well, what do you think, rock goddess?" asked Gina. Staring back at me in the mirror was a complete stranger. I was speechless. I blinked my eyes five times to make sure it was me. It was me alright; me wearing a mullet. That's right, a mullet—I couldn't get away from that mirror fast enough.
I ran down Prince Street at lightning speed, pushing people out of my way in order to get home as quickly as possible. It's a bird, it's a plane, it's—a mullet? As I sprinted past a crowd of people planted in front of Dean and Deluca, someone shouted, "Hey, Joan Jett!" And I'm pretty sure I also heard someone say, "Look, it's Andrew Ridgeley!" For those who don't know Andrew Ridgeley, he was one-half of the musical group Wham, along with George Michael. He also sported a mullet.
For the next week, I refused to go outside. I covered all the mirrors in my apartment and sat shiva. My friends stopped by and offered their condolences. They suggested that I go back to Gina to have her fix my hair before graduation. But how could I? That woman was not my Gina; something had happened to her in India. I called my parents and told them not to come to graduation. That phone call didn't go so well. My father pointed out that when parents fund their children's ridiculously expensive educations, it automatically gives them the right to attend their graduation ceremonies. They were coming, like it or not.
The day of graduation, Gina left a message on my cell, wishing me luck and hoping to hear how I liked the new me. I never called her back. More calls followed. I erased each message unheard. Apparently, the new me was a coward. My graduation was saved by my fashionable mother, who brought with her an assortment of scarves left over from her '70s Rhoda days. I had never been a scarf girl, but these were really something: all vintage, all fabulous. Luckily, the scarf was a huge hit at graduation. People not only asked where I had bought it, but wanted to take a picture of me. For the next six months, which was as long as it took for me to grow out my hair, I was a fashion icon of downtown New York. And Gina? I never saw her again, but I think of her every time I hear a Mary J. Blige song or see someone with a mullet.
Dump 'Em
Excerpted from Dump 'Em: How to Break up with Anyone from Your Best Friend to Your Hairdresser by Jodyne L. Speyer
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.