Oh, where to begin, where to begin. . . .
I used to work at a spa/salon owned by a woman who was a little special. She went by DJ, which many of us joked must stand for DisJointed since her connection to reality was tenuous at best. Her exploits are many, and I know that even if I spent an hour trying to remember them all I'd still forget some moments of jaw-dropping insanity.


There were the small things, like the unpaid electric bill, which went back several months and had a comma and a few 0s before the decimal. And the unlicensed stylist she hired because he was 'a genius', and the colourist who came in drunk, and the colourist who was a meth user who frequently disappeared during the day. There were also a lot of thick, unmarked envelopes seen in the hands of law and code enforcement employees as they emerged from her office, which may or may not have been connected to the constant disappearance of cash tips from the locked box in which they were kept. One guess who had the key.

DisJointed used to call the front desk staff from her office and instruct us to go out, find MethHeadColourist and bring her back so she could apply dye and other chemicals to people's hair (while undoubtedly high; nice and safe, that), which we interpreted as 'go have a cup of coffee at the nice cafe down the block and get paid for it'. She was a stylist herself, and would frequently leave mid-haircut when the need to wander aimlessly like a mental patient, lock herself in her office with all the lights out or completely disappear for several days at a time struck her, which was at least once a week.

Then there were the less-small things, like the time she got in a fistfight with a costumer for a hair show to whom she owed a lot of money. . .in the retail portion of the business, while we were open. The fight spilled out into the street, the police were called and DisJointed broke her finger trying to pull off the other woman's shirt. Then there was the Saturday morning when everyone came in to find the place trashed, with all the cabinets emptied, piles of product and towels on the floor, the supply closets nailed shut and DisJointed rambling like the town drunk. Rather than deal with it, quite a few just quit on the spot.

The place is still open and she's still around, both of which I credit to those nice, unmarked envelopes she likes to give to the people in charge of shutting down businesses or arresting lunatics.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 18 Jun 2009, 20:51, Reply)