Lost in Translation

Lost in Translation
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There are four basic forms of communication: verbal, non-verbal, written and visual, which should be enough but, given all the misunderstandings and misinterpretations that exist, apparently isn’t.

In 1954, I took both Shorthand and Speed Writing; both rapid, abbreviated forms of writing. I did this because according to my father it was important for me to learn to take dictation, so I could secure a secretarial position when — not if — but when my husband died. I wasn’t even married yet, but he said this as though my future husband’s death was a prerequisite to me becoming a secretary.

I was good at taking dictation, but not so great at transcribing what I’d written. That was fine. It meant I didn’t have to remain in my first marriage long enough for my husband to die, because I never wanted to be a secretary — or a wife.

I wasn’t a terrific student, so rather than struggle through second year Spanish, I took it for only one year; long enough to learn how to order a Margarita, and to find a bathroom in Mexico. Knowing more than that seemed superfluous.

Doctor’s have their own written language. It’s only understood by other doctors, pharmacists and some lab technicians. If you’ve ever tried to decipher a written prescription you, more than likely, experienced a pounding headache, profound eye strain, and total bewilderment. I never had any interest in learning how to read doctor’s prescriptions until last week, at Lab Corp, when technicians preparing to draw my blood couldn’t decipher whether my doctor’s codes indicated he wanted my cholesterol or my PSA levels.

Hairdressers have their own language. It’s taught in Beautician school. It is in every woman’s best interest to know Hairdresser Language before entering a salon. It isn’t necessary to know the entire language; just a select few words can make a difference in the quality of their lives.

For instance, every hairdresser knows what the word “Trim” means, in Hairdresser language. But, an innocent, unsuspecting woman who enters a salon with the intention of having just a teensy bit of hair snipped, does not realize that her understanding of the word trim is different from that of her hairdresser’s. I learned this the hard way.

I sat in my hairdresser’s chair. “The length of my hair is fine,” I said “but I have an affair to attend tomorrow, so just clean it up a little.” Then I used the words I assumed were universally understood. “Just trim it.”

My hairdresser confirmed her understanding of my request. “Okay,” she said. “Just a trim.”

I felt no need to critique or analyze every snip-snip after that, although I admit I felt uneasy when she pulled out the electric razor and began buzz cutting around my ears. But, she knew what I wanted, and I knew she knew what I wanted. Not an issue.

She scalped me.

I didn’t have enough hair to wrap around my curling iron. I’m convinced her Beautician School instructors were descendants of an ancient Apache Tribe.

Another communication lesson taught in Beautician School is: When a hairdresser screws up badly, it is the responsibility of her co-workers to jump in and lie their asses off.

I knew I was in trouble when every hairdresser in the shop stopped by and said, “Great cut,” “You look fantastic.” “I just love that style on you.” One hairdresser said, “It looks fantastic from the side,” to which I answered, “That might be a plus if I were a Sidewinder. Unfortunately, I usually enter a room facing front.”

An example of visual misinterpretation occurred when I confessed to my friend, Rochelle that every time I see an elderly couple walking arm in arm I become teary eyed. “It’s beautiful to see they are still in love after so many years,” I said.

Rochelle set me straight. “Love has nothing to do with it,” she said. “They’re holding each other up.”

I am now careful not to stand too close to my husband when we walk together. I want to make sure people recognize that we’re in love. Not feeble.

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