Reader’s note: This story is satirical in nature and published in a spoof issue.
I had just spent legit the best spring break of my life in this place called Cancun, partying, tanning and drinking with friends. I expected my high to last well into the middle of next week-when Daddy puts his Wednesday deposit into my bank account-until I realized that I left my absolute-most-favorite GHD hair iron in the hotel in Spain.
My hand started shaking the way my Blackberry vibrated the night that Keith dumped Rachel, and I think I was having a panic attack. Luckily I had a layover in this place called Kansas and I was sure they’d sell a GHD in Canada.
I rushed off the plane only to be bombarded with frizzy curls and big scrunchies. Finally, I found a girl who appeared to at least look in the mirror before leaving her house and she told me I could get whatever hair products I needed at a place called Wal-Mart.
Wal-Mart, what an interesting name.
Growing up on like the best island ever, Long Island, I hadn’t been exposed to people who weren’t like me. My trip to Wal-Mart was, I’d say, more of cultural experience than buying an LV bag in Louis’s native city of France.
“Welcome to Wal-Mart, can I help you find anything,” asked a woman in an accent I had only heard in the movies. Was that slow-speaking drawl English?
She smiled as if she was really happy to help me. It was a novelty for me to see a female smile when she’s not posing for a picture (that will hopefully be posted on Facebook).
The people in Wal-Mart were eclectic. Some were thin, some were fat. Some had mullets, some had shaved heads. Some had teeth, some didn’t.
In my opinion, that strange place that prides itself on saving money and living better should be more conveniently located. Usually if a store is going to actually make a profit, it isn’t located between a field and a road that leads to nowhere.
“Where can I find a straightening iron?” I asked a saleswoman who had a bewildered look on her face when she heard the word “iron” come out of my mouth. I definitely wasn’t on Long Island anymore.
“Let me go ask my co-worker, hold on miss,” she said politely.
People here were friendly and didn’t talk as if they were a mile away from the person they were conversing with. I must admit, I didn’t hate it.
A man walked towards me who looked like he hadn’t showered in days. Maybe that’s just what it’s like over here in Canada.
“Hi ma’am, I understand you’re looking for a straightening iron? Please, follow me,” he said.
I walked behind him and gazed up and down every aisle, and wondered how one place could sell jeans, kitchen appliances and tampons all under one roof. The prices were just so low, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
He led me to the beauty section of the enormous place, but there were no GHD’s. No Chi’s, no Sedu’s-where was I?
I sadly walked towards the exit; my head slumped to the ground. It took a while before I realized that I had been walking around the store for hours and that the exit was nowhere to be found. I happened to come across an extra bed-set up with Little Mermaid blankets-and that is how I spent a night in Wal-Mart. Ironically, I never found the isle where they actually sell the walls.