“Like this,” the woman snapped, shaking a picture she had torn out of a magazine. “I want it like this! I don’t know why you are arguing with me.”

I took a deep breath. We had been talking in circles for 5 minutes: I want my hair like this - but that’s curly hair - if mine were shorter it would be more curly - that’s not the way it works - but I like the style - but it won’t look like that.

We went on an on until both of us wanted to pull out our own hair at each others.

“I’m not arguing with you,” I said, as though I were trying to calm a wild animal. “It’s just that I think if we do that style you will end up being disappointed with how it looks.”

“Well, you are the hairdresser, make it look like this!” Angrily poking the picture with her index finger.

“I can’t change straight hair to curly hair, and that style looks the way it does because that woman has curly hair!”

“Fine,” she said resolutely, stuffing the picture back in her bag, “I’ll take a perm too.”

“A perm?!” I said, huffing a startled laugh, “Oh, Okay. Well, I don’t have time to do a perm today. You were only booked for a 50 minutes times slot, so how about I book you back so we can do the perm and a cut?”

“You expect me to come back? I’m here now and I don’t have all the time in the world,” she said.

“As if I do?” I snapped, before I could censor myself. I had a moment of remorse, before realizing that it actually felt good to stand up for myself for a change. I was a new hair stylist in the city, and thought I should take any client I could get…but not clients like this. As far as clients go, I could do better.

“You know what?” she said, scowling, “I could do better. Hairdressers in this city are a dime a dozen, I don’t need this.”

“No, you don’t,” I replied peacefully, “And neither do I.”

I calmly walked to the door of the salon and opend it. A cool breeze rushed in, bringing with it a sense of refreshment. I stood a little taller and relaxed my shoulders. “I hope you find what you are looking for, but I’m not it.” I waved my hand in the direction of the door, urging her to go.

“This is how you treat clients?” she asked, snarkily, as she stormed by.

“No,” I said, “This is how I treat myself.”