I just wanted frozen yoghurt

Some people have lovely, wholesome interactions with customer service workers.

I, apparently, do not.

For some reason, I have a gift for turning what should be a simple five-minute transaction into a bizarre social experiment.

Take Yo-Chi, for example.

I love Yo-Chi. One day I discovered there was one right near my work, and suddenly I had a reason to get through the day. All eight hours I was thinking about my order: half mango, half chocolate, topped with cookie dough, M&Ms and popping pearls.

It was perfect.

I walked in behind a group of girls and joined the queue. Standing in front of the yogurt dispensing machines was the most enthusiastic Yo-Chi worker I'd ever seen.

At first I loved it.

"This guy is passionate," I thought. "He's got what it takes."

Boy, did that opinion change quickly.

He called us all over and asked who had been to Yo-Chi before. The girls all shook their heads.

Noobs.

He looked at me "I have," I said. "I'm not with these girls."

"Oh awesome!" he said. "Let's quickly go around and share everyone's names."

...Why?

Why are we doing icebreakers at Yo-Chi? I didn't come here to build connections. I came here to pour frozen yoghurt into a paper cup.

After everyone introduced themselves, he asked if we'd like to sample the açai. The girls all eagerly agreed.

No.

Please.

I know what I want.

The second everyone was distracted, I quietly slipped around them and started pouring my mango and chocolate.

Freedom.

I made it to the toppings station before Mr Enthusiastic appeared beside me.

"Wow! I love your jacket!"

"Oh really? Thanks! It's from—"

"Uhhh... I don't really like that shop."

...

Excuse me?

He immediately realised what he'd said.

"But... if you like it, that's cool!"

I smiled politely, grabbed my yoghurt and left before he asked us all to exchange phone numbers.

Unfortunately, my customer service trauma didn't end there....

Every four weeks I get my nails done. Same salon. Same style. Same lady. You'd think by now we'd have a nice little routine.

You'd be wrong.

I sat down and asked for a new set of acrylics with shellac. She looked at my nails.

"What you have now is builder gel."

"Oh no it isn't," I replied. "It's shellac."

"No. Builder gel."

Now, this woman has done my nails for months. She was the one who put the shellac on in the first place!

I reminded her that we'd spoken at my last appointment about doing a fresh set because I'd already had three infills. "You don't need a new set," she said, aggressively scraping the polish off. "These are fine."

Then she grabbed my wrist and held my hand up for the whole salon to admire.

"Why do you wait so long?!"

"I work five days a week," I laughed nervously.

"Ohhh... you've been busy?"

"Yeah... very busy."

She dropped my hand back on the table. I looked around and realised everyone was staring at me. I thought getting your nails done was supposed to be relaxing. Apparently mine comes with a public shaming. Then, just when I thought we'd moved on, she grabbed my hand again.

"This is builder gel!"

I finally looked at her and quietly asked,

"Why are you yelling at me?"

"I AM NOT YELLING AT YOU!"

Right.

Four weeks later I walked straight back into the same salon. Same style. Same lady. What can I say? I'm loyal.

Maybe it's me. Maybe I have one of those faces that invites people to make customer interactions unnecessarily complicated.

Either way, all I wanted was frozen yoghurt and nice nails.

Sez