When my grooming career was first blossoming, I endured the trials of strict, irrelevant, corporate tyranny. Black socks and monotone shoes were decreed, and the horror of even the slightest flesh art or piercing visible was aberration to the corporate crown. Subjects dare not rest on pedestals, but rather stand proudly for 8hrs straight in grooming tribute. Joy, laughter or merriment shall be curbed and verbal noise must only issue forth to cajole add-on services or harassment reminder calls. So with each day, I relish the freedom and flexibly afforded to myself in my current state of employment.
Some days, I come dressed to the grooming nines in my finest smock, pants and war paint. Other occasions, usually after a lengthy battle with the sanity goblins I call my children, I’m lucky to arrive with a pair of jeans, scrub top and mop of hair hastily thrown in a bun. No matter my attire, for the most part the shop is full of happy, playful groomers bantering back and forth while the day’s tasks are miraculously completed, even without the mythical black socks. It twas after such a pleasant work day, that the small band of groomers lounged around the shop waiting for the clients to retrieve their beasts of spoiling and pampering.
Without consideration, I lowered my grooming table and proceeded to rest my weary feet while leaning against my grooming arm. Just after recovering from a particularly delightful banter session with the owner’s teenage ward, a familiar face strolled through the door to fetch her pooch. Like a well oiled machine, one of my comrades proceeded to handle the financials and I was off to free the beast from its cage. However, to my amazement, as I went to raise my carcass from the grooming table I found myself in the steel arm’s vise-like grip. The ward instinctively brought her gaze to mine and saw the panicked, but silent look. Without a word ushered, she quickly procured the pup from the back room and into the owner’s embrace.
The instant the door slammed shut and the customer out of sight, she ran to my aid. Mentally I thanked my prudish ways for ensuring that rather than racy undergarments, my backside was coated in practical granny panties should the situation get dire. Oh dear lord, please don’t force me to abandon my trusty jeans or require the shears or nail trimmers of life to free me! Franticly the ward assessed the situation, and encouraged me to lean into the arm rather than pull against. As I put my pounds into it, I suddenly felt the back of my britches relax and found the arm to have forfeited. “ Et tu, Brute?” My jeans had betrayed me by allowing my rear pant loop to wedge into one of the arms fasteners, hence holding me captive on a grooming table prison.
However, no time was wasted dwelling on this denim infidelity, just glorious praise and relief spilled forth. In that moment, I had never enjoyed the company of a teenage ward more. So although I long ago put down my sword for the corporate crown, I can reminisce with a new found respect after surviving the claws of the grooming arm.