WHEN I WAS 14, I landed myself a part-time job in a local hairdressers.

And then lost it after six hours of gainful employment.

It was my first job, and I didn’t manage to hang onto it for one entire day.

As far as jobs went, it was probably the least frenetic of all my friends’ gigs, many of whom were making money as lounge staff in local pubs.

Talk of uneven floats at the end of the night and fake orders from pissed ould lads left me palpitating, and I thought I’d be much more secure in the safe surrounds of my town’s old lady hotspot.

It was my mother’s go-to spot, and, like the Meg from Family Guy I was as a teen, I’d also been getting my hair cut there for years.

Like most salons in Ireland in the very early noughties, it was utterly devoid of the bells and whistles we’ve come to associate with salons today.

If you were lucky, an encyclopaedic-sized book featuring hairstyles that were last popular in the late 80s would be placed in your lap, and if the salon wasn’t too busy, a mug of instant coffee might have been dropped at the mirror by a bored-looking teenager.

The thoughts of being offered a flute of Prosecco would have had most of the clientele clutching their pearls and querying whether it would be added to their bill after their wash and set.

The more hysterical among them might have even gotten the ball rolling on the ‘They’ve finally gone and lost it below’ rumour.

Certain I would nail the bored-looking teenager role, I was given a day’s trial and endured my first ‘time is literally going backwards’ experience.

My responsibilities included sweeping the floor, washing towels, shampooing customers and making coffee.

And put it this way, it was nothing like the Bills, Bills, Bills video.

I swept the floor like someone had taken my batteries out. Acting like I had never handled a household utensil before, I clanged it off chair legs, got it stuck in corners and at one point gave a customer a swift belt on the ankles.

During my duty, the floor of the salon looked like the owners had recently laid a mohair carpet.

Then there was the towel run.

Up and down the stairs I went; transporting wet towels up to the washing machine and returning with dry towels, ready to be folded in the mounted cubby holes.

But I couldn’t keep up the routine.

Whether it was the fact that time stopped existing in that salon or I had yet to master the art of telling it, I regularly returned back to the floor without dry towels, and feebly offered a damp one for the stylist’s use.

I made multiple cups of bad coffee, and on the one single occasion I was allowed to wash a customer’s hair, I let a stream of water slide down her collar and stray drops to rest on her nose and eyebrows.

Instead of apologising and tending to her with a towel, I did what any self-respecting teen would do; caught my breath, ignored it and then held a lifelong grudge against her for asking me if I might dry her neck.

Jesus; why don’t you just call the guards on me?

Deep down though, I was baffled by my ineptitude. I had seen other teenagers do this job, but I was acting like I’d never been let out in public before.

The steam of the salon had caused my face to turn beet-red, it had a Monica-esque effect on my bob, and because I was wearing glasses, my vision was slightly impaired as I lurched around the salon, dragging the sweeping brush in a posture not dissimilar to a cavewoman.

As a customer, I’d never realised how warm salons could get, but as an employee I soon copped that the black Polyester flares I had teamed with my clunky school shoes and Susst zippy was akin to setting myself on fire in front of the well-heeled ladies of my parish.

I was a holy show, and I rued the day I handed my CV in. (References; my mam.)

Friends of my mother’s looked out from beneath old-fashioned hood driers in sympathy while stylists silently cursed me as I swept hair up their legs and asked them whether I might be due a second break any time soon.

Oh, I was due a break alright; a nice long one.

Three o’clock rolled around and I was fired. Sacked, done, finito.

And in the shame of it all, I replied to the rejection by politely telling the owner I wouldn’t be coming back.

He looked momentarily confused, and said: “I know. I just told you we wouldn’t be having you back.”

Yeah, nice save. Acting like he didn’t want me back.

Spoiler: he didn’t want me back. And I had to find a new place to get my Meg bob seen to.

DailyEdge is on Instagram!