A Cringe-worthy Moment

We’ve all had them, right? Those moments in time you’d like to forget and often do until something triggers a non-relatable incident deep within the recesses of your brain. Such was the case recently when Hubby D and I were discussing nothing in particular that drifted into cringe-worthy experiences. Mine, since D hasn’t been cursed with that recollection gene. Nevertheless, here’s one of mine.

Some years ago in my life before that as a writer, I worked in the Central West End of St. Louis and frequented a high-end hair salon whenever the need arose. The stylist-owner who worked his magic on my hair was considered among the city’s best and never failed to send me out the door looking much better than when I came in. How well I recall the salon routine, of first going to the private area to select a protective smock before sitting down in C’s chair. On one particular day I’d skimmed through the variety of colorful smocks, my hand landing on a dark brown that appeared to be a notch above the rest. Not only did the smock match my eyes but it felt good and made me feel special as soon as I put it on over my own top.

Only one other client sat in the salon that morning, an attractive older lady who looked familiar although I couldn’t quite place her. The three of us engaged in a round of salon chitchat about family and the upcoming holidays while C applied streaks of pale blond to highlight my darker blond hair. Then the lady casually commented on the smock I was wearing, how similar it was to one of her favorite blouses; in fact, the blouse she’d worn to the salon that day. Hers had a small hole in the sleeve, near the cuff. Holy crap! So did my smock, only it wasn’t a smock but rather the lady’s blouse. My heart skipped a beat or two. I heard C gasp from where he stood behind me.

After a flurry of apologies on my part, which the lovely lady accepted on her part, I hopped out of the chair and felt my cheeks burning as I made the long walk back to the rack of smocks. My hand shook as I replaced the lady’s brown blouse with a salon smock, also brown.

Not sure who was more mortified—C the owner-stylist or me, the didn’t-have-a-clue offender. Either way, the lovely lady couldn’t have been more gracious when C introduced her as the wife of a former St. Louis mayor, both of whom still served prominent roles as movers and shakers in the city.

Did I ever return to the salon? You bet, many times. One change I did notice: the private area now contained two clothing racks—one for the salon smocks, the other for clients who chose to remove their tops before donning a smock.

So, what about you? Any cringe-worthy moments you’d like to share? Don’t be shy. Let me feel your pain.

 

 

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About Loretta Giacoletto

Loretta Giacoletto is an American writer of family sagas, mysteries, and contemporary fiction, all of which contain elements of crime. She divides her time between the St. Louis Metropolitan area and Missouri's Lake of the Ozarks where she writes fiction, essays, and her bi-monthly blog, Loretta on Life, while her husband Dominic cruises the waters for bass and crappie. Their five children have left the once chaotic nest but occasionally return for her to-die-for ravioli and roasted peppers topped with garlic-laden bagna càuda. An avid traveler, she has visited numerous countries in Europe and Asia but Italy remains her favorite, especially the area from where her family originates: the Piedmont region near the Italian Alps. - See more at: http://www.loretta-giacoletto.com
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