“Please don’t tell me,” he continued, “that I listened as you stood right there, on that very spot, and told me you wanted to be a beautician – and that I was stupid enough to believe you.”
“You weren’t stupid,” I answered. “And it isn’t as simple as that.”
“Yes, it is. Now, do you want to be a beautician or don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes… No. Yes. No. Yes… Sort of.”
“Sort of? What the hell does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“It means … I want to have my OWN salon,” I said. And it felt good to actually say it out loud. Then it stopped just being a dream and became real.
“Really?” Dad suddenly sounded happier. “Remy, that’s great! And you could do it, too.”
“Not yet. Probably when I’m older.”
“Of course you can do it now! Deborah Gordon started her first business at sixteen. It’s just whether you’re willing to put the work in.”
His faith in me made me smile, so I told him I’d even started making a business plan. He offered to take a look at it, because running his own business with Uncle Pete means he knows a thing or two. I explained that it was still at an early stage (no point letting him know that I’d abandoned it to update my Facebook page) and that I’d show it to him when I was happier with it.
“OK,” he said. “Well, at least let me know the start-up cost.”
“Huh? Um… I’m still fine-tuning that, too,” I bluffed.
“Great. Well, I’m really proud of you, Remy.” And he looked it. In fact he looked so proud, I finally realized how gutted he must have felt about me ditching A levels.
I feel proud of myself too and I haven’t even done anything yet!
So I’m going to spend the rest of the night on my business plan. Will begin by typing “What is a start-up cost?” into Google.
Thursday 10 July – Double-Date Day!!! 9 a.m.
I’ve just woken up. Good job it’s my day off. Stayed up God knows how late last night working out my salon start-up cost – which is basically how much I’ll have to spend up front to be able to open a staffed, furnished and fully equipped salon. Nightmare. It took three hours! (And I’m crap at maths, so three earth hours felt more like six to me.) All to finally work out that I’ll need about forty grand! Where on earth am I going to get forty grand from? Nowhere, that’s where. I have about £200 in the bank and if I keep saving at the rate I do, I won’t be able to open a salon until I’m five hundred and twenty-two! (And I don’t need to be Carol Vorderman to calculate that.)
Grr.
It’s depressing, but I’m going to have to knuckle down and keep on working at Kara’s until I win the lottery or something. (Yeah, right.)
9.30 a.m.
OMG. I’ve got great big bags under my eyes. I’m going to look awful for DD (double date). Will have to paint on the concealer, because I bet any money that Terry’s girlfriend, Paris, is going to be some glamour model that puts me to shame. Methinks this mission is going to call for some chicken fillets! And on second thoughts, concrete instead of concealer.
Brainwave! I once read in
Grazia
that on the day of a photoshoot some models brew two teabags, lie down and then stick them under their eyes to get rid of dark circles. Will try it.
9.50 a.m.
Grrr… My “de-bagging” session was interrupted by the Feminazi. She called and asked if I could pop into the salon if I wasn’t too busy. I wanted to say, “Of course I’m too bloody busy, I’ve got eyes to de-bag, a DD outfit to sort out and a Facebook page to update.”
But I need Kara just now so I said OK.
2 p.m.
Today is the best day ever for three reasons:
1. I passed my NVQ!
2. When Kara presented me with my certificate she said, “And I’ve decided to continue with your colour-coded booking system.” She even said I could take her colour – green – as she doesn’t need to do treatments now that I’m qualified.
How could something that simple make me feel like I’d got through the
“You weren’t stupid,” I answered. “And it isn’t as simple as that.”
“Yes, it is. Now, do you want to be a beautician or don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes… No. Yes. No. Yes… Sort of.”
“Sort of? What the hell does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“It means … I want to have my OWN salon,” I said. And it felt good to actually say it out loud. Then it stopped just being a dream and became real.
“Really?” Dad suddenly sounded happier. “Remy, that’s great! And you could do it, too.”
“Not yet. Probably when I’m older.”
“Of course you can do it now! Deborah Gordon started her first business at sixteen. It’s just whether you’re willing to put the work in.”
His faith in me made me smile, so I told him I’d even started making a business plan. He offered to take a look at it, because running his own business with Uncle Pete means he knows a thing or two. I explained that it was still at an early stage (no point letting him know that I’d abandoned it to update my Facebook page) and that I’d show it to him when I was happier with it.
“OK,” he said. “Well, at least let me know the start-up cost.”
“Huh? Um… I’m still fine-tuning that, too,” I bluffed.
“Great. Well, I’m really proud of you, Remy.” And he looked it. In fact he looked so proud, I finally realized how gutted he must have felt about me ditching A levels.
I feel proud of myself too and I haven’t even done anything yet!
So I’m going to spend the rest of the night on my business plan. Will begin by typing “What is a start-up cost?” into Google.
Thursday 10 July – Double-Date Day!!! 9 a.m.
I’ve just woken up. Good job it’s my day off. Stayed up God knows how late last night working out my salon start-up cost – which is basically how much I’ll have to spend up front to be able to open a staffed, furnished and fully equipped salon. Nightmare. It took three hours! (And I’m crap at maths, so three earth hours felt more like six to me.) All to finally work out that I’ll need about forty grand! Where on earth am I going to get forty grand from? Nowhere, that’s where. I have about £200 in the bank and if I keep saving at the rate I do, I won’t be able to open a salon until I’m five hundred and twenty-two! (And I don’t need to be Carol Vorderman to calculate that.)
Grr.
It’s depressing, but I’m going to have to knuckle down and keep on working at Kara’s until I win the lottery or something. (Yeah, right.)
9.30 a.m.
OMG. I’ve got great big bags under my eyes. I’m going to look awful for DD (double date). Will have to paint on the concealer, because I bet any money that Terry’s girlfriend, Paris, is going to be some glamour model that puts me to shame. Methinks this mission is going to call for some chicken fillets! And on second thoughts, concrete instead of concealer.
Brainwave! I once read in
Grazia
that on the day of a photoshoot some models brew two teabags, lie down and then stick them under their eyes to get rid of dark circles. Will try it.
9.50 a.m.
Grrr… My “de-bagging” session was interrupted by the Feminazi. She called and asked if I could pop into the salon if I wasn’t too busy. I wanted to say, “Of course I’m too bloody busy, I’ve got eyes to de-bag, a DD outfit to sort out and a Facebook page to update.”
But I need Kara just now so I said OK.
2 p.m.
Today is the best day ever for three reasons:
1. I passed my NVQ!
2. When Kara presented me with my certificate she said, “And I’ve decided to continue with your colour-coded booking system.” She even said I could take her colour – green – as she doesn’t need to do treatments now that I’m qualified.
How could something that simple make me feel like I’d got through the
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