by Rose A. Valenta

Created on: October 29, 2009

Pitbulls Don't Always Bite

The other day, my head hunter called and said he had a job interview lined up for me at a client about an hour away. Of course, being a woman the first two things that came to mind before even thinking about making 5 copies of my resume and the potential technical questions the interviewer might ask - hair and nails.

Uppermost on my mind was whether or not the razor stubble would show through my pantyhose. Did I even have a spare pair of those? After all, I put my fingernails through the last pair I wore, while hopping around on one foot, thinking about beating rush hour traffic, instead of what I was doing - one of my major faults.

I must go to the CVS drug store, I thought.

While driving over to CVS to buy stockings and a disposable razor, I pulled a Maria Shriver and called my hairdresser from my cell phone. There are about 6 very important speed dial numbers programmed into my cell phone: hairdresser, bookie, the Italian bakery, PetCo, kids, and 911 - I memorized the one for road service.

"Hi, this is Rose" I said. "I have sort of an emergency. Is Tony available for a cut and blow?" I asked. The receptionist is used to me and laughed.

"Hey, Rose, he can fit you in for just a cut in 45 minutes. Is that OK?"

"Great," I said, as I lowered the receiver until the cop made a left, "see you then."

I can blow-dry it myself before I paint my nails, I thought, so I don't mess up my manicure. There is nothing worse than overlooking a long hair stuck to the polish and hanging down off the pen while you are taking notes at the interview, except maybe a short curly one. Both are controversial.

I bought my stuff and arrived at the hairdresser to find some guy walking in the front door with a Pitbull. My hairdresser is gifted, but I didn't think he also bobbed dog tails.

In unison, about three people said "Ohhh, look, isn't he cute?" Followed by "oohs" and "ahhs, coochie-coo" lots of petting, and the important questions, like "What is he?" and "how old? ahhh."

"He's a 6-month-old Pitbull." the owner said. Lots of silence followed. "Its OK, he doesn't bite."

"Ohhh, he's just a puppyyy!"

Everybody went about their business. I sat in the waiting room frantically leafing through the hair magazines, so I could give Tony a real challenge for $35.

Then it happened... Poochie took a crap, and I mean a foot long one, right at the front door on the welcome mat. His owner was only half finished getting a dye job. One of the shampoo girls ran over to him gagging and handed him a roll of paper towels, just before an 85-year-old customer walked in and got lucky.

There he stood, red as a beat, half of his hair was getting fermented. His pride and joy just lost the popularity contest at Tony's. The place smelled like a combination of bleach, every flavor shampoo, and road kill. I don't know what Poochie had for breakfast and didn't ask.

I wasn't sure if the smell would linger on my clothes, so I went back to CVS and bought some dryer sheets and used them as shoulder pads.

True, no matter what you hear, Pitbulls don't always bite.

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