There’s this cute, sweet woman who comes into the salon to tan. Brown hair, slender and attractive. She’s always very nice to me and Achilles. She’s been going there for years. She always remembers my name and uses it when she comes in.
She’s been coming in a lot lately because I’m assuming the summer season. We chat and it’s always nice to see and talk to her. She had come from food shopping the other day, and I let her put some of her stuff in our fridge while she tanned to keep it all fresh. She was very grateful.
She works as a school teacher somewhere out in the suburbs. I think that’s noble work, shaping the minds of our youth. My sister Janice does that as well.
I was talking to Karen the other day, and I just felt that I knew her from somewhere else. It passed from my mind and I didn’t think about it until the next time she came in and I was chatting with her.
I decided to ask her if there was some possibility that we may have met before meeting here some place else. She dismissed that notion quickly saying no.
I just figured she had a familiar face. That happens all of the time. Some young woman will approach the counter and I’ll ask her last name, and she’ll say: “Oh, I’ve never been here before.”
Happens at least once a week.
But the other day I was looking up a friend of mine’s number in my phone when I came across Karen’s name. I tapped on the entry, because there is no reason in the world for me to have a client’s number in my personal cell phone. Her file comes up and I then go on our system at the salon and look up her information there. The spelling of the name and phone numbers are identical.
So I must have not only met her before but she’s given me her phone number. I even had her email address. But I would have remembered that event. But there is one reason I may not have remembered it.
Because under her name under Employer it says: WFGC.
That’s the acronym I used to put in my phone when a certain type of lady would offer me her number. WFGC stands for World Famous Gold Club. That’s the seedy strip joint that I occasionally go to with my buddy, Johnny. (See: Johnny R. – 2011 to Present – Needle in the Groove)
Yea. Our little school teacher used to be a stripper!
But as salacious as this sounds, I am never going to say anything to her about it. Ever. I’m not even going to tell Achilles. Being a stripper is not an easy life. It hurts a lot of women. Usually they end up stripping because they were out of choices.
Karen has pulled herself up out of that and has made something of herself. I’m really proud of her.
It’ll be my little secret.
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