I had a manicure tonight and I was passed off from one guy to the next when a lady came in wanting a full set and needing it now. Normally I would have taken offense; however, tonight the Host first sat me with a guy at the front of the shop, in the hot evening sun. I don't do hot graciously. When, in order to accommodate Ms. FullSetNow, the Host changed me to the guy in the back of the shop, out of the sun, I was okay with it. I actually preferred it. The Host, proceeded to give New Guy my instructions. New Guy repeated the key words, "manicure, buffed, no color." I assumed New Guy spoke broken, or no English, or he was not the sharpest cuticle cutter in the nail implement holder. I assumed wrong.
I placed my wallet and book on New Guys table. I keep my drivers license inside the wallet in a non-matching holder, rather than in the viewer on the side of the wallet. Cops and Retail Merchants want to hold the license anyway, and it's easier to either hand them the holder (Merchants) or remove the license from the holder (Cops insist the license be free of anything else). In the outside viewer I have kept a varriety of photos, reminder notes, or soon-to-be-expiring coupons in hopes of them cueing me to use them--I usually remember to check them the day after they expire.
Currently, the viewer holds the business card I printed for the Writers Conference I recently attended in NYC--the same conference where we were told to refrain from handing our cards or manuscripts, or anything, to the Agents present--if the Agents wanted us to contact them, they would give us their cards (I received cards from two of the three Agents I "pitched"). So, after having a rush printing job, delivered to the hotel the night before the conference, I ended up using my $10-turned-$60-cards as memo cards to myself, and passing a few of them out to aspiring authors, friends and family, and strangers on the street, as well as dropping one or two of them in fish bowls in hopes of winning a free "whatever" was being promoted by that particular fishbowl--usually a monthly contest for a free hotel stay or meal. So far I've not won anything; however, I still have two-hundred or so cards left and hope springs eternal.
Near the end of the manicure New Guy looked at my wallet and uttered his first complete sentence of the night, "You're a writer."
I was almost speechless--almost. And just a little ashamed of my assumption because the border of my wallet obscured everything except my picture, name, and email address--none of which conveys the fact that the card is in fact a marketing tool for pitching my as-yet-unfinished novel. When I found my voice, I responded ever so humbly, "Why yes I am!" He then proceeded to tell me to write him a poem to get his wife back. Little does he know the only poetry I write are Limericks and Haiku's. Badly. Neither of which, even when done well, lend themselves to wooing a disenchanted lover back. I explained to him I am really an RN and I only write as a hobby.
He then stated I looked different from the picture. Since the picture was taken less than three months ago, and my hair, makeup, and clothing were almost identical to today's ensemble, (a black long sleeve sweater, which then covered a fuchsia scoop-neck top, and today covered a red v-neck top) the Qs that popped into my head were, "How do I look different? Better? Worse? Younger? Older? Fatter?Thinner? Happier? Sadder?" and the Qs continue to plague me even as I type this. I try to quiet those Qs as best I can, as I cling to the one really important thing he said...
"You are a writer."
I guess staging the photo in front of a wall of books actually accomplished my goal: to give me the appearance of being a "Book Person" in general....and dare I type it specifically?...An Author!
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