Spent all day working the drive thru at the wig shop. Capital Wigs it's called. We sell real human and horse hair synthetic blend wigs. Nothing medical, pure vanity. Catering to shallowness. It's a tricky job, the drive thru window at a wig shop. The health code says we can't let the customers handle any wigs unless they've made a purchase so the shop has a demo unit of each of the big sellers there on a rack. After you get the customer's preference over the intercom, you've got about thirty-five seconds till they pull around and expect to see you modeling it at the first window.

First you have to find the right one. Many of the demo units' tags have worn off. Most of the time I just pick what I think looks pretty. Then there's always some that fall down behind the desk. All of them are itchy.

And that's not all. You've also got to look at the three scenarios they picked, bring up those script cards and be performing the first one as you open the window. The worst ones require an accent. It's always something obscure. I don't even know if Bulgaristan is a legal country, I sure don't know what they talk like there.

Anyway you go through all this hassle, multiple wigs, modeling and acting and everything and then they all say the same thing: “ohhhh, I don't know.”

They never buy the wig. Anything different is scary. Thy don't want more terror. They all want the same wig. They all get the medium length, brunette, office girl cut. #458. Always.

Those are the cars that pay. We get a lot of pranksters. College kids and burn outs. Many times you get done with all of this and then, at the second window, they just pull up and shoot you with squirt guns filled with kerosene.



Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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