The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Hair Stylist

Hey--nice faux hawk. Let me guess, you want to be a hairdresser. Huh? No? Well, I still call them that. Well, hair care professional, whatever you like--it adds up to pretty much the same game plan.

You'll start off by going to one of those "hair, beauty and esthetics" school--kinda like Frenchy in Grease--who knows if you'll finish high school first? You'll ignore the fact that all the instructors display hairstyles at least 20 years out of date and the school's founder's look can be best described as "bowling alley chic". You'll be amazed at how difficult some of your fellow students seem to find the basics of the curriculum, and grow tired of constant noise of gum popping that surrounds you.

Eventually, you "graduate", only to discover that none of the truly trendy hair places in town consider your training of any worth. You do manage, however, to convince one salon to take you on to do basic "gofer" work--you'll be certain your feet actually wore a discernable path between the salon and the nearby coffee shop as you continually turn the tip jar proceeds into lattés for the rest of the staff.

The manager likes your attitude--you don't whine and complain like the rest of the employees do--and he agrees to take you on as an apprentice of sorts. Your pay is terrible, but you start to learn the basics of coloring and setting hair, and at night you pour over magazines and web sites to develop an instinct to be able to tell which hair style will work with different head shapes and facial features.

Next your mentor starts sending you to the weekend "institutes" to learn more about how to use hair products to best advantage. Of course, the training sessions are all sponsored by hair product companies, so you end up spouting the company's propaganda to all your clients, convinced that the particular brand of color or shampoo you are shilling is the only one that won't destroy their follicles or leave them looking a botched science experiment.

Fortunately, your high-paying clientele will be all too willing to go along with the snob appeal of your hair studio. Unfortunately, as you go through the same routine with each new product line's training sessions--you see your boss is fickle; he'll switch suppliers to whomever gives him the best kickbacks--you begin to realize that it's all really the same stuff with different packaging.

That all changes one day when you encounter "Silk Magic". It's a new hair straightening product that works like nothing you've ever seen. Somehow, without the aid of irons or heat of any kind, this simple spray liquid easily eliminates all curls and tangles from even the most unruly locks.

You go to the Silk Magic training sessions with a newfound enthusiasm for your work. You volunteer to man their product booth for free at various trade fairs, so great is your love for the stuff. Then, when you are asked to drop off unsold bottle back at the supply warehouse after everyone has gone, you happen across a folder on a desk labelled "Extremely Confidential", which of course is too tempting to resist.

You read the true secret of "Silk Magic"--the key ingredient is the urine of a rare mountain goat that resides in the most remote regions of the Himilayas. The secret file explains that despite the recent interest in the media regarding the nature of magic behind Silk Magic, the company fears the public would avoid a product made from goat piss.

You go home that night and lie awake, your mind considering this newfound information. You decide the company is taking the wrong approach. Then next day you jump on a train and head to the head office of Silk Magic, where you present yourself to the chairman's secretary and explain you're going to the media with the goat urine secret unless you're given an audience with the head of the corporation.

After a three hour wait you get your wish. At first the chairman is suspicious you are some sort of extortionist, but after a few moments your fervor for the product is clear, and he decides to listen to your ideas. You explain that your high-end clientele won't be put off by the fact that Silk Magic is made from goat urine; many of them know the drug they take to alleviate symptoms of menopause comes from the urine of pregnant horses, and others are all too eager to spend freely at spas and salons that cover them with mud, or apply leeches to their skin.

The chairman will give your ideas more consideration than one might expect since you are some unknown who blackmailed your way into his office; it doesn't hurt that he's been feeling the pressure of media speculation about the product, and also that he finds you somewhat attractive.

The next month a new campaign is launched that reveals the "ancient beauty secret" of Silk Magic, with flashy commercials which dissolve footage of simple peasants leading their goats past Tibetan temples into scenes of famous actresses receiving awards while cameras flash. The best ad features an ethereally beautiful british actress smiling as her voice more accustomed to pronouncing the words of Shakespeare purrs "what's a little goat pee between friends".

Sales go through the roof, and the chairman is awarded bonuses that more than double his normal salary. He doesn't forget you, and soon he's bought you a Manhattan apartment and made you the manager of an exclusive new Silk Magic salon that immediately has a three-month waiting list and becomes the talk of the Park Avenue set.

Actresses, models and other celebrities soon are courting your favor to win appointments. You begin receiving invitations and tickets to exclusive parties and openings. You hire only the best of the best--you can afford to pay well since you are free to charge almost whatever you wish and people will pay it.

One client who comes to you faithfully for hair straightening is the fifth wife of an infamous NBA "bad boy" who's known for his questionable behavior both on and off the basketball court. Your client tells you enough about her husband's private life to earn you hundreds of thousands of dollars from gossip magazines, but you're a paragon of discretion, so everyone knows their secrets are safe with you.

One day, the basketball player himself shows up unexpectedly. It's the middle of the playoffs and he's been coming under fire in the media for not being a team player. He decides a token gesture like dyeing his hair in the team colors is simpler than actually addressing the problem of his selfish playing style.

You know that his naturally curly african-american hair has been bleached and dyed a half-dozen times in the past six months, and a quick examination tells you that he's putting his follicles at risk if he subjects his hair to this drastic plan. He laughs off your concern, and explains that's why he's "come to the best". Still, as is your practice in such cases, you have him sign a waiver to indicate he understands the problems that can result in this abuse of his scalp.

The procedure goes fairly well, though you're still worried about the final result. He pays you double your normal fee and tosses you a pair of courtside tickets as well. That night you're front row centre to witness the disaster.

The game is nothing short of brutal--more of a war than a game--and the frenzied screaming of the fans almost frightens you. You sit with your latest boyfriend and watch in horror as your client from earlier that afternoon begins rubbing his head--his scalp irritated by the combination of harsh chemicals, bright lights and heavy perspiration. With every scratch a clump of hair falls out--soon the floor crew is having to sweep the court during every t.v. commercial time out.

At first he seems not to notice it, but then it becomes too obvious, and some of his teammates begin mentioning it at the bench. He starts missing shots, and eventually the coach pulls him out of the game for a few minutes to calm him down. While sitting on the bench, he finds a bandanna and wraps it around his head, only to have the refereeing crew order him to remove it--seems such head attire is contrary to the league's anti-gang rules.

You notice just before half-time there are more and more cameras focused on the rapidly-balding star, and just before the intermission one of the team's P.R. staff slips beside you and suggests you might want to leave--apparently your client has been muttering threats on the bench.

After heading to the bar to try to forget the fiasco, you eventually go home and flip on the t.v.--it's headlining all the news shows. Seems the basketball star had decided, back when he was hanging around with Louis Farrakhan and others of his radical black islam ilk, that the route of everything from slavery to segregation was zionism, and so had gotten his head tattoed with two circles--one containing a Star of David with a line through it, the other featuring a swastika.

Even his normal "bad boy" image can't justify this--his endorsement contracts all contained escape clauses for things just like this, and within hours all the companies that previously featured him in commercials are cutting all ties with his sinking career.

Meanwhile, you notice there are more than a dozen messages on your answering machine. The gist of the messages is that your expected lifespan is not one that most would envy. You debate calling the police, but your well-honed instinct for discretion is too strong, plus you figure after a night's sleep the anger will fade and the damage control will take over.

You are surprised, only a couple of hours later, when you wake to see a large angry shadow standing over your bed. You flip on the light to see the now completely bald basketball player glaring at you, a bandage covering the controversial skin art.

"Get up" he growls. He tells you to get dressed and waits in the next room. You go for your phone, but the cord has been cut and your cell is no where to be found. You realize your best bet is to play along, and soon you're getting into his Porsche which is double parked in front of your building.

The next hour is a rambling drive filled with rambling conversation--well, he'll do most of the talking. He talks of his bizarre childhood raised on the rough streets, avoiding a grandmother and her weird cult friends. He admits his fears and tells you of his secret dreams. You keep looking for a way to escape the car as you try to calm him down.

Then suddenly his weaving across the center line attracts the attention of a passing motorcycle cop who begins a pursuit. Instead of pulling over, the basketball player hits the gas and soon the Porsche is squealing on corners and swerving dangerously close to the guardrails overlooking steep drops. You scream and hang on for dear life, and then one corner comes too fast...

You awaken strapped to a bed with various tubes and wires attached to your broken body. You can't move much, nor can you talk, but your mind works fine. You develop communication using a blinking code, and eventually you're moved to a care facility where they try, on limited budget, to increase your almost nonexistent mobility.

You would get better care except the widow of the basketball player sues you for alienation of affection--claiming you were having an affair with her husband and that's why the two of you were out in his car at that hour, both of your blood samples showing evidence of alcohol consumption. Meanwhile, his mother sues you for negligence, claiming your incompetent dye job caused his final destruction. It will turn out, sadly, that your little "waiver" is completely worthless in a serious civil court action.

The final injury will not be physical pain, but having to endure the once a month visit from the local hairdressing school--the clients in the care facility get free haircuts from these amateur hacks, and since you're unable to voice your complaints, they always give the worst student to you.