The Computer History Doesn’t Lie

So I stood up a client yesterday.

At least, that’s how she sees it.

I’ve been keeping very busy lately — busy enough that I’m actually in the process of (gulp) hiring my first-ever all-legal-like employee. Which is a daunting process that has given me all new perspective into the reasons that small business owners do not opt to create new jobs and why our own industry has fallen to the fate of booth rent.

So, when I had two cancellations that effectively obliterated my Tuesday “morning” (because I don’t actually do mornings), I marked those cancelled appointments off my schedule so that no one would book them, giving me time to run errands and work on all this paperwork and duck-herding.

One of the things I needed was a certified copy of my Fictitious Business Name filing paperwork — because (throws up hands in despair) who knows what I did with that? And, naturally, our county doesn’t have any option to just order one online, so I got to go spend two hours of my life standing in line in the 1960s-esque cave that is our county courthouse. (The walls are tiled in dark granite stuff, no natural light, makes you feel like you’re 20 stories underground.)

The cave-like conditions mean that my cell phone is a glowing brick that neither sends nor receives any sort of signal. But upon emerging into the daylight once more, the phone sprang to life in a manner that would make Frosty the Snowman envious: Missed calls, text messages, voicemails, and more incoming calls while I was trying to check everything else.

It seems that one of my still relatively new (two or three months now) clients arrived for the appointment that she had recorded in her calendar only to find that not only was I not at the salon, but quite unreachable as well.

Her concern spread to the neighboring massage therapist, which in turn spread to both my mother and the BF. ALL of whom proceeded to barrage my cell phone in attempts to ascertain my well-being.

Problem is — she didn’t have an appointment. Even the cancellations that I’d marked off the book didn’t line up with the time slot she had in her calendar, so it’s not like I inadvertently canceled her appointment.

Believe me, I’d have much rather been at the salon doing her nails than standing in the dank hallway of the courthouse feeling my vitamin D levels dropping. I just didn’t have her in the book.

A thorough check of the booking history shows no sign that she ever had an appointment.

But there’s nothing I can do about it. One of us is wrong, and it comes down to my memory versus hers.

I rescheduled her, and she doesn’t seem mad about it. But I’m still torn emotionally; on one hand I don’t see why I should accept responsibility for what appears to be her mistake. On the other hand — like I told someone else — it’s kinda like being married to a woman; it doesn’t matter if it’s your fault or not, it’s still your job to apologize.