You can almost always tell when somebody's held a service position at some point in his or her life. Waitresses, hair stylists, waxers and massage therapists -- they all understand the beauty and brutality of working for tips and tiddlywinks. They generally treat other service slaves well. And they always tip. They are all subject to random abuse and terror by those who exploit the bejesus out of the totally not true proverb: the customer is always right. Um, not on my watch, bee-yatch.
Thanks to becoming partially disabled in a work-related injury, I no longer have to rely on tips. (I have to rely on the kindness of strangers.) Working as a reservationist at the spa that crippled me, however, leaves me in the position of having to talk down clients who have major meltdowns. Sometimes they are right. It's not cool that that one lady's massage therapist reeked of Jim Beam. Not cool at all. She deserved her refund, her gift certificate and the assurance that that guy would be fired and collectively beaten by the bath attendants. I was right there with her. But sometimes I get the impression that people confuse their underlying mental illnesses and unresolved mommy/daddy issues with bad service. And these people truly need to be beaten. Tarred and feathered even. They can make working in the service industry a nightmare because they know that most businesses will engage in at least a small degree of butt kissing to maintain their good reputations. Enter the tyrants.
Yesterday I had to call in the manager to deal with a dumbass who was complaining about his previous day's service. Actually, he was complaining for his girlfriend who wasn't allowed to speak. Right away he rubbed me the wrong way. He walked around the spa with what looked like a beer bottle, and we're not that kind of establishment. The spas that sell crank out of the laundry room are several blocks away, and just everybody knows that. He eyed me suspiciously as I offered him the treatment menu, like I was trying to pull one over on him by telling him the difference between the seaweed and the coconut milk baths. "I'll figure it out" meant "All women are bitches, including you." (I'm an excellent reader between the lines.)
And then he decided to complain, but in this mamby-pamby way that said nothing more clearly to me than "My mommy left me in my poopy diaper when she drank, so now all women are whores " (more or less.) But when you're in the service industry you don't have the option of suggesting therapy or simply slapping people, unfortunately. No, you have to pretend that said cranky complainer has a valid concern, suck up to him, let him talk down to you, and then offer a consolation prize like a refund or the opportunity to whip the staff. Basically, you need to do the customer service dance of the seven veils. Even when they don't deserve it. I am not so good at this.
Being a Libra graces me with a high level of diplomacy and charm (as well as a pathological love of laying around.) So, most of the time I am, in fact, able to play kissy-face with high maintenance clients by giving them a small discount to make up for inadequacies like a chilly massage room or a bath that was too hot. And really, I don't have to do this often because we do offer exceptional service and our clientele makes us happy to do it. But the random freaks test my patience. They arrive unhappy, and they intend to leave unhappy, no matter how many times you spritz them with rose water. And let me tell you, a person who can seethe through an entire spa package shows a serious commitment to misery. "Bring her into the light" is what I tell the therapists when I send them a client I suspect will pull a Joan Crawford meltdown in the mudbath. But even though I feel like crazy clients are on my turf, the truth is that I am on theirs. I only work there. They pay the bills.
There is a benefit of being mistreated, however. I have a massive collection of stories that I tell to my co-workers with only slight exaggeration that are even more hilarious after work with a couple microbrews. And every service worker has such a collection of tales. We also accumulate revenge ideas that we laugh about but would never actually do. I would never rinse off my nose piercing in a client's cucumber water, for example. Never. But damn, is it fun to pretend that I would. We talk shit about the crazy ones to prevent ourselves from actually doing anything crazy. Mostly we take pride in the fact that most of the crazy ones wouldn't last a week in our jobs, no matter how trivial they may appear to others. Spreading hot wax between a pair of spread legs in the name of hair removal is a job I would not want to do. Nevertheless, kind and intelligent people I know do this work. For the love of God, be nicer to them. Be nicer to all of us while you're at it. And don't forget about therapy. That refund you weasled out of the manager ought to buy at least a couple sessions.
Thanks to becoming partially disabled in a work-related injury, I no longer have to rely on tips. (I have to rely on the kindness of strangers.) Working as a reservationist at the spa that crippled me, however, leaves me in the position of having to talk down clients who have major meltdowns. Sometimes they are right. It's not cool that that one lady's massage therapist reeked of Jim Beam. Not cool at all. She deserved her refund, her gift certificate and the assurance that that guy would be fired and collectively beaten by the bath attendants. I was right there with her. But sometimes I get the impression that people confuse their underlying mental illnesses and unresolved mommy/daddy issues with bad service. And these people truly need to be beaten. Tarred and feathered even. They can make working in the service industry a nightmare because they know that most businesses will engage in at least a small degree of butt kissing to maintain their good reputations. Enter the tyrants.
Yesterday I had to call in the manager to deal with a dumbass who was complaining about his previous day's service. Actually, he was complaining for his girlfriend who wasn't allowed to speak. Right away he rubbed me the wrong way. He walked around the spa with what looked like a beer bottle, and we're not that kind of establishment. The spas that sell crank out of the laundry room are several blocks away, and just everybody knows that. He eyed me suspiciously as I offered him the treatment menu, like I was trying to pull one over on him by telling him the difference between the seaweed and the coconut milk baths. "I'll figure it out" meant "All women are bitches, including you." (I'm an excellent reader between the lines.)
And then he decided to complain, but in this mamby-pamby way that said nothing more clearly to me than "My mommy left me in my poopy diaper when she drank, so now all women are whores " (more or less.) But when you're in the service industry you don't have the option of suggesting therapy or simply slapping people, unfortunately. No, you have to pretend that said cranky complainer has a valid concern, suck up to him, let him talk down to you, and then offer a consolation prize like a refund or the opportunity to whip the staff. Basically, you need to do the customer service dance of the seven veils. Even when they don't deserve it. I am not so good at this.
Being a Libra graces me with a high level of diplomacy and charm (as well as a pathological love of laying around.) So, most of the time I am, in fact, able to play kissy-face with high maintenance clients by giving them a small discount to make up for inadequacies like a chilly massage room or a bath that was too hot. And really, I don't have to do this often because we do offer exceptional service and our clientele makes us happy to do it. But the random freaks test my patience. They arrive unhappy, and they intend to leave unhappy, no matter how many times you spritz them with rose water. And let me tell you, a person who can seethe through an entire spa package shows a serious commitment to misery. "Bring her into the light" is what I tell the therapists when I send them a client I suspect will pull a Joan Crawford meltdown in the mudbath. But even though I feel like crazy clients are on my turf, the truth is that I am on theirs. I only work there. They pay the bills.
There is a benefit of being mistreated, however. I have a massive collection of stories that I tell to my co-workers with only slight exaggeration that are even more hilarious after work with a couple microbrews. And every service worker has such a collection of tales. We also accumulate revenge ideas that we laugh about but would never actually do. I would never rinse off my nose piercing in a client's cucumber water, for example. Never. But damn, is it fun to pretend that I would. We talk shit about the crazy ones to prevent ourselves from actually doing anything crazy. Mostly we take pride in the fact that most of the crazy ones wouldn't last a week in our jobs, no matter how trivial they may appear to others. Spreading hot wax between a pair of spread legs in the name of hair removal is a job I would not want to do. Nevertheless, kind and intelligent people I know do this work. For the love of God, be nicer to them. Be nicer to all of us while you're at it. And don't forget about therapy. That refund you weasled out of the manager ought to buy at least a couple sessions.
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