I scoffed the other day when I read an article on line claiming that bad experiences in restaurants often lead to bigger tips. It's a simple formula, apparently; complaining leads to guilt leads to overcompensation. Gosh, we're a weird breed.
And I, as it turns out, am right in there with the rest of the idiots of our species. Today, when I skulked into Elizabeth Arden for a quick eyebrow wax with the esthetician with whom I have been cheating for two years, I came face to face with the sadistic bikini waxer who caused me to stray. There she was, Edwina Scissorhands, not letting me get away for one moment with my feeble attempt to pretend I had no idea who she was. What the heck was she doing there on a Tuesday??
With a malicious grin, she tormented me with her precise memory, asking after each of my children, knowing exactly what they had been up to the last time I lay whimpering on her spa bed. She twisted the knife with news of her own son's upcoming surgery for some mysterious illness. Ooh, she's good. Naturally, I told her how disappointed I was when I was suddenly available only on Tuesdays -- her day off -- for spa treatments. I told her how much I missed her. And I promised I would make an appointment soon so we could catch up.
I just know she's sharpening her scissors, honing the tweezers, bringing the hot wax to a hyper boil in anticipation of my contrite return for a full Brazilian. But the truth is I wasn't motivated by my fear of the pain (which, by the way, has kept me off the bikini waxing circuit for quite a while; that, and my conscientious objection to mature women trying to look prepubescent). What motivated me was pure guilt and shame, guilt for hurting Edwina's feelings, shame for sneaking around behind her evil back.
All I know is that the next time there's a hair in my soup, I will think of Edwina Scissorhands (oh, stop, not for the reason you're thinking) when I offer up my compliments to the chef and a ridiculously huge tip.
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