A good friend of mine, female, but you will not get any more clues than that, was having a terrible day.
She had clawed and scratched her way to the top of her Department, and now was reaping the rewards. A scandal had brewed, the media was baying for blood, her blood, and she sat in her apartment, curtains drawn, unanswered telephone ringing endlessly in the distance.
She had a raging hangover, the gin and tonics of the previous night, sunk in anticipation of the media storm about to break, had done nothing to improve her mood. What to do? Where to go?
T’was then she remembered her daughter had won a competition, a day at ‘Famous Hairdresser Ltd’ for a complete makeover. The voucher lay in the sitting room cupboard. Perfect she thought. It’s in my daughter’s name, my face is not known, I shall disappear to ‘Famous Hairdresser Ltd’ for the day, and emerge a new woman, at least I shall feel better if I have to speak to the media.
She picked up the telephone and called ‘Famous Hairdresser Ltd’, she booked an all day appointment for that day in her daughter’s name – they were booked up for months ahead, but since she was their competition winner they would be happy to accommodate her. She called a taxi, donned dark glasses, pulled up the collar of her coat, and sidled out of the back door of her apartment to meet the waiting taxi in a side street. So far so good.
Pulling up outside ‘Famous Hairdresser Ltd’, she strode out of the taxi, full of false bonhomie, and marched up to the receptionist to announce her presence. She was in a filthy mood. No mood for a receptionist who had forgotten to write down the appointment. Someone else had taken the slot squeezed in for her.
She hadn’t got to be head of her Department by being a shrinking violet, (sorry darling, I only promised not to name you, not to whitewash your – shall we say ‘effective’, managerial skills!) to cut a long story short, best accompanied by several gin and tonics, she gave them chapter and verse of their deficiencies as entrepreneurs. Mr ‘Famous Hairdresser’ himself was on the premises, unusually for him, and he stepped forward to see what all the fuss was about. ( – as an alternative to having Madame wreck the peace and calm of his haven of spine chillingly expensive ‘me-time’) He kindly agreed to attend to Madame himself.
Attend he did; and several hours later, having demanded coffee at half hour intervals, a newspaper that they didn’t have on the premises, and several other fine examples of making a complete nuisance of yourself, there she was; a new hair colour, a new hairstyle, an immaculate manicure. Coiffured and Cossetted.
She strode back to the sulking receptionist, not yet mollified at being overruled by this imperious woman, and presented the voucher.
“I’m so sorry, Madam” she said in withering tones, “I can’t accept this”.
“It’s perfectly valid, look at the date”
“Yes, but it’s for ‘Famous Hairdressers Ltd’ next door – this is ‘Not Quite So Famous Hairdressers Ltd’, that will be £645……”
Quite apart from the buttock clenching bill, there was the small problem of her name – her real name was writ plain and clear on her chequebook!
You will be glad to hear that the cheque has been banked and cleared, ‘Not Quite So Famous Hairdressers Ltd’, didn’t recognise her name, and she’s safe now, scandal averted, and dining out on the tale.
I haven’t laughed so much in years. She’s a pussy cat really…..