When you're sitting in the chair at the beauty parlor (wow, grandma, 1950 is calling), getting an awesome blowout after having your roots done and your phone starts blowing up with frantic calls and text messages, at which point you have to figure a tip in your head because you don't really want to open your phone to get to the calculator app, but, you don't want to stiff your awesome, pixi-like stylist (who you love to bits and pieces) before jetting out of the building like your ass is on fire because you have to go put out someone else's fire.
Day Job, my patience with you is hanging by a thread.
A really, really weak thread.
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