Throughout my childhood, my mom owned a hair salon. I grew up with the whine of blow-dryers and the smell of permanent wave solution. When I was in the 5th grade, my mom gave me the job of keeping the parking lot clean. For a couple of bucks a week, I’d sweep up the leaves, candy-wrappers and cigarette butts.
When I first got the job, I was super excited. I loved the responsibility and the spending money. As time went on, the novelty wore off. I’d get out there in the parking lot, do a lousy job and expect to be paid for it.
It became an epic battle. My mom would come out and inspect my work and inevitably find it lacking. She’d point out that I mostly just pushed the leaves around and picked up the most obvious pieces of trash. I’d complain that I was overworked and underpaid and every other lame excuse.
My mom got tired of it and warned me that if I didn’t clean up my act (and the parking lot) she’d get someone else to do the job. And, of course, I didn’t listen. I went out and did my usual routine of moping and pushing the leaves around.
At my next inspection, she handed me my pay and told me I was fired.
Fired. . . by my own mother! She hired the son of one of the hairstylists at the shop to replace me. Just like that, I was fired from my first job. I was shocked. Stunned. Incredulous. How could my own mother fire me?
Several decades and several jobs later, I see how that moment changed me. I’ve never been fired from another job and I’ve never taken one for granted since that last day in the parking lot.
My next job after the parking lot debacle was “clean-up” boy in a fish market. I smelled like a fish for the three years I worked there but I never once complained or gave it any less than my best effort. These days, I have what I consider to be the job ever and I’d like to think I give it everything I have.
Thanks, Mom!