Today I spent seven hours in the dispensary. The dispensary, for those of you who are unfamiliar with salon terminology (hi, everyone but me!), is a dark little hole in the back of the salon where they house all of the products slash tools that we need for specialized services. Basically, you’ve got all your haircutting supplies at your chair, and everything else has to be retrieved from the dispensary. There are cupboards upon cupboards full of hair color, perm solution, foiling supplies, and more! So much more! It’s a little like an orgasm in a room if you’re into that kind of stuff. And it would be wonderful to be on dispensary duty, in charge of handing over just the right tube of color or the perfect dollop of barrier cream for protecting a client’s skin during a perm… but the problem is, it makes you crazy. It makes you crazy to sit back there, hour after never ending hour, answering people’s (stupid) questions and jumping to your feet for all of their (annoyingly excessive) requests. Eventually, you just want to toss their supplies through the window and send them on their way with a stimulating punch to the gut.

Halfway through the day, and after my forty millionth load of salon laundry, I completely lost interest in the checklist of dispensary duties. Did I want to refill the shampoo bottles? No thank you! Would I like to organize and restock the product cabinets? Someone please shoot me! So I started making up excuses for keeping myself busy with other projects. The complete disregard for conditioner bottle symmetry was atrocious, so I devoted a good half hour to the straightening and color-coding of these bottles. The bobbi pins and hair pins were beginning to infringe upon each others’ space, which I found downright insulting, so fifteen minutes was taken to painstakingly separate the pins and line them up properly so that the pointy ends were all facing south. I was able to waste a good two hours of my time alphabetizing and numbering each CD from the facial room, which reminds me I totally forgot to bring the list home that I was going to type up and hang above the CD player. Damn.

Dispensary duty turns me into a babbling maniac with OCD. Who knew?

The one highlight of being stuck back there all day is that you get to witness the breakdown of many of your fellow stylists. Because the room is in the hallway next to the bathrooms and smoking patio, everyone passes by their on their fascinating, ranting way to smoke/eat/cry in a bathroom stall. I saw at least four different women burst into tears, one instructor nearly implode with pent up frustration, and heard snippets of dozens of extremely personal conversations. With forty-five minutes left in the day, I decided to capitalize on my boredom and conveniently observant position. So I whipped up a couple of little signs and hung them on the outside of my counter. I shall draw you a representation:

I got a few strange looks (ok more than a few) and I didn’t end up making any money, but I was able to entertain myself quietly for the rest of the evening by practicing serious and advice-worthy facial expressions until it was time to go home. All in all, I feel satisfied with my productivity today, and I feel that my improvements to the organization of the bobbi pins and conditioners, not to mention my tactful and affordable offer for psychiatric help, will be met with much appreciation and the occasional grateful idolization. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.