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ONE
BAILEY
“No. Ma’am. I—” I say into the phone, but I’m once again cut off by Mrs. Can-I-Speak-to-a-Manager.
“My skin is red and peeling. I tried to put makeup on and it just flaked right off! What am I supposed to do for my daughter’s wedding this weekend? I can’t go looking like this !”
I exhale slowly because for fuck’s sake. Clients think they know everything, even when you tell them otherwise—several times. “Mrs. Jacobs,” I begin using my best customer service voice, “when you booked this particular chemical peel, I specifically asked you if you had any important events planned for the next four to five days after. You told me you had done this before, and that it wouldn’t take that long for your skin to return to normal. All of this information was on the form that you were supposed to read and sign before the procedure, which I know you did since I’m looking at it right now. Everything happening to your face is completely normal, and you should be okay to start wearing makeup again in a couple of days if you’re following the care instructions.”
“But we have family coming into town tonight. I can’t let my mother-in-law see me in this state. I’ll never hear the end of it!” she cries out, and I’d feel bad for her if she wasn’t so rude to me from the second I picked up the phone. I had a feeling this woman was going to give me trouble when she walked into the spa with her Jimmy Choos and Louis Vuitton bag, demanding a discount on her services because she planned on referring us to her brunch group.
“I understand that,” I reply, attempting to placate her. “I recommend using a tinted moisturizer for now. Make sure it has SPF in it, or you’ll end up drying out more. Use a generous amount of nighttime moisturizer before bed, and you’ll be good to go in time for the rehearsal dinner.”
She scoffs, and if I didn’t need to make an income, I would tell her to eat a giant dick. I swear, the way people treat others makes me want to leave this whole fucking planet sometimes. Especially these rich, entitled women who think they’re owed something just for gracing us with their presence. “Fine,” she says in a condescending tone. “I guess my daughter’s wedding will just be ruined . You’re getting a bad review—I hope you know that.”
I should get an award for my composure at this point, honestly. “Okay, Mrs. Jacobs,” I reply through my teeth, trying to remain calm. “Have a great day.” I hang up the phone before she has a chance to berate me further for something I warned her about on multiple occasions, setting it down on the counter and dropping my head into my open palms.
“Yikes,” Isla says from where she sits behind the reception desk. “That was painful, and I couldn’t even hear the whole thing.”
“I love my job,” I reply with a saccharine smile. “But respectfully”—I pause, glancing around to make sure we’re still alone—“fuck Mrs. Jacobs. Fuck her whole brunch group too.”
She laughs quietly. We both started at the spa around the same time, and our similar personalities ensured that we’d become fast friends. Her mom owns the place, but Isla is a vault. I know I can vent to her and be sure that it’ll stay between us. Just like it does when clients blame her for coming on the wrong day or at the wrong time, expecting her to roll out the red carpet and clear the schedule to accommodate them.
It’s not all bad, though. We have a lot of really cool people who come through here, who are so grateful when we’re able to help them feel good about themselves. That’s why I got into esthetics in the first place. All humans are beautiful, but sometimes we need that extra push for our self-esteem. I love being the catalyst for that.
I just wish the Mrs. Jacobs of the world would actually read the shit they sign so I don’t have to deal with getting yelled at multiple times a week.
“Sooooo,” Isla says, drawing out the word. “I got a call today and I think you might be interested in what they’re offering. ”
I smirk. “Is somebody finally going to pay me to sit on my ass and watch reruns of Friday Night Lights ?”
“No. Unfortunately, you will not be compensated for being a whore for Tim Riggins. That’ll continue costing you a monthly fee from Netflix. However,” she says, a wide grin blooming across her face, “you might be able to find a hot football player of your own if you take this job.”
I lean in, giving her my undivided attention. “I’m listening.”
“Well,” she begins, “I know you have your two-week staycation starting on Monday, but the Super Bowl is in Tampa this year, and one of the football player’s wives is looking for an esthetician. Hers cancelled at the last minute, so she asked around and we were recommended. She wants someone who would be available to do skin care and makeup for the whole week. You’d have access to all the events she’s going to, and she’s willing to pay double your normal rates for the short notice.”
I purse my lips, mulling it over. I’m obviously not going to say no, but I at least want to look like I’m putting an adequate amount of thought into it. I’ve been waiting for this two-week staycation for months, but double my regular rates sounds a lot like I could enjoy some time off next year. Besides, it’s only a week. I’ll still have time after to relax.
“What’s the client’s name?” I ask. One, because I want to see if I can determine her skin type and figure out what products I may need for her by looking at her photos. And two, because I’m nosy as fuck .
She types something on her computer, waiting for it to load before she answers. “Dia Davis. Her husband plays for the Boston Blizzard.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, even though I don’t know a damn thing about professional football. I binge-watch Friday Night Lights at least once a year, but actual games? It’s just never been my thing. I couldn’t pick this woman’s husband out of a lineup, so I’ll have to do some research—I don’t want to make a fool out of myself next week. We’ll be spending time at Super Bowl-related events, so I at least need to know who she’s married to.
“Sooooo,” she implores. “Are you in?”
I look up at her, an excited grin slowly blooming over my face. “Hell yeah. Book it.”