Getting a Job Is Hard Work

(Especially when you have satanic symbols carved into your sternum.)

DISCLAIMER: It’s only a humble brag if you pretend to be humble

I am proud of the fact that both of my daughters have worked consistently since they were sixteen years old. My oldest actually started her own face painting business in elementary school, tutored and babysat throughout junior high and high school, worked in a busy, upscale retail store her freshman year in college, and has held the same hostess job now for close to two years. She plans to own and operate her own business after she graduates and I have no doubt that she will. Her younger sister made and sold jewelry before she could drive, got her first restaurant job as soon as she got a truck, and then moved into retail as well. Today, she’s a model in New York City, a career that requires long hours, constant travel, frequent discomfort, and very little job assurance or security. (She goes on probably a hundred castings for every gig she lands. And please do not give me the I’d never let my 19-year-old daughter work in that industry speech, or you’ll get my I’d never try to control my grown-ass child’s life or make their decisions for them lecture, thanks.)

For reference, these are my incredible daughters (and my very handsome husband).

My objectively spectacular spawn, who are indeed even more beautiful on the inside, STG.

I know there’s a slight chance I’m biased, but other people tell me all the time that my girls are equally and exceptionally pleasant, personable, put-together, and professional. They are also two of the hardest workers I have ever met in my life. They are never late for a shift, don’t call in sick unless they are physically unable to work (or contagious), and take their job duties seriously, as they should. They are respectful, responsible, appreciative, and the exact opposite of entitled. Their employers, not surprisingly, routinely adore them and beg them never to leave.

I guess they both just got lucky, being able to find work—over and over—in this economy and all. I say this after watching a viral video of a poor young woman who just can’t seem to get a job. Or at least, as far as we know, the one job she applied for and unjustly didn’t get.

“I wanted to come on here and talk about something that is really starting to annoy me,” @ashxobrien starts. “So, I applied for a job at T.J. Maxx a few weeks ago and they denied my application. They couldn’t even call me, they just sent me some automated email. So, I went in today and I was like, so what was the reason I didn’t get hired and she was like, oh you just, like, don’t have enough experience, there was [sic] candidates that had, like, more experience than you.”

They denied her application? How rude and unfair! (I’m actually not even sure what that means, TBH.) And no courteous and remorseful phone call? Emily Post is rolling over in her grave. No wonder Ash is annoyed. And good for her, for storming right down to that store and demanding the explanation she clearly deserves for filling out an entire piece of paper. Her hand must have been cramped for days.

Also, this is Ash.

Let me say here, before I go any further, that I am sure Ash is a lovely person. As an author and a human being, I am well aware of the perils of judging a book by its cover. I also have nothing inherently against tattoos or piercings. I have a few tats myself, and many of my friends are covered in them. But can we all agree that a two-inch roadrunner on your bum or a butterfly behind your ear—or even a tasteful sleeve with a few koi, some feathers, Frida Kahlo’s face, and a meaningful quote or two—and a series of demonic images all up around your bedazzled grill aren’t quite the same thing?

“And, you know, I asked her if it was about my tattoos, obviously, because I know a lot of places don’t like tattoos. She said that wasn’t the reason. I don’t feel like that’s true, but whatever. I’ll leave it at that.”

Let’s dissect that a bit. So Ash already has a tiny inkling that maybe the sinister looking spider strangling her neck and creeping up her cheeks or the patently satanic Baphomet peeking out from her between her bosoms (not to mention the dozen-plus decorative baubles she’s had stabbed into her face) could conceivably be hindering her job search. Perhaps this is the early stages of what’s known as a “rude awakening;” an introduction to the idea that our personal choices could potentially have—gasp!—consequences?

Ash did not, in fact, leave it at that.

“You know, I hate that my tattoos are such a defining factor for me getting a job or not. Like, just because I have tattoos doesn’t mean I’m not going to be a good worker. Like, I just, I do not understand that at all. Because quite literally some of the most smart [sic] intelligent people I’ve met are people with tattoos and piercings.”

On the one hand, she’s not wrong. Her fondness for dermal decoration absolutely does not mean she’s not going to be a good worker. But Ash’s distinctive bodywork is going to make it difficult, if not impossible, for her to prove that, on account of nobody wanting to hire her because of it. Her sinister ink fetish also suggests she prioritizes personal expression over professionalism and raises questions about her judgment, her attitude about appearing offensive or off-putting to others, and her time and money management skills. (As someone with four discreet tattoos nowhere near my face, I can attest that even the delicate ones aren’t cheap and take a good chunk of time to complete.)

“Another thing, too, is, like, all these places, they say that they’re hiring but I feel like they’re not. Because I shop at all these stores and I see ‘hiring now’ signs but, um, those signs have been up for months and I know plenty of people who are looking for work, so how have they still not hired people?

Oh, sweet Ash. Welcome to the world. Pull up a chair while I craft a little analogy for you:

Imagine you’re the proud owner of the planet’s coolest bong shop. (Have you tried job hunting there, BTW? What about biker bars, thrift shops, amusement parks, or the tattoo parlor where you got that subtle artwork done in the first place? I’m not being judgy or patronizing; I’m being practical and realistic.) We’ll call it the Devil’s Den and Dispensary. Now suppose a slightly frumpy but otherwise presentable lady named Loretta pops in to drop off her resume and fill out a job application. Loretta, who is wearing leopard-print stirrup pants, a sequined denim jacket, and way too much perfume, is enormously qualified for the job. She also smells faintly of pot roast. Are you going to hire her? If not, do you plan on personally ringing her up later to tell her she’s not getting the job? Will you be gracious enough to even email her a rejection? Or are you going to laugh her out of your lair? It’s called reading the room, Ash. Loretta didn’t do it, did she? Yeah, neither did you.

After I watched Ash’s rant the first time, I wondered if my middle-age-lady was showing. Perhaps the comment section (there are 76,000 of them as of this writing) would be a parade of “beats me why that windbag didn’t hire you, you’re fire, baby!” Thankfully, there was much sanity to be found in there.

In a follow-up video (this one with with 1.3 million views), Ash tried to address the deluge of comments on her original post.

“I’m not trying to be a doctor, I’m not trying to be a lawyer, and I’m not trying to work for the Federal Government. I was trying to work for a retail store that pays minimum wage. When these places are only paying minimum wage, I don’t think they should have the right to be super picky about how people look. You know, I have clothes that are acceptable for a job like that. I also have good hygiene, I take very good care of my skin, I’d be an acceptable worker!”

And therein lies the problem. The person hoping to be paid to do a job doesn’t think the person who hires them to do it “has the right to be super picky.” The thing is, Ash, they do. They have that exact right plus tons more, because they’re the boss. They can tell you how to dress and where to sit and what time you can eat lunch and when you can or can’t take vacation days, and if you don’t like it, they can show you how to clock out for the very last time. If that makes you want to do something crazy like carve an angel or a dove into your arm, you’ve got two choices: suck it up, or figure out a way to be your own boss. There’s no third option.

Imagine showing up for any job you’ve ever had in smelly gym clothes or coffee-stained pajamas and wearing a rusty bird cage as a hat. On what planet would you expect the person stroking your paycheck to just shrug and say, “You know what? You’re one of the most acceptable workers we’ve ever had. See you at the staff meeting.”

Even though I cringe imagining it, I’ll give Ash props for having the curiosity—and the cojones—to march into that T.J. Maxx and try to pinpoint the mysterious reason she wasn’t hired. (Unless she was trying to harass or intimidate the hiring manager; I doubt it because she seems pretty mellow, but you never can be sure.) I’m guessing there may not be a level-headed adult in this young lady’s life who can explain that an automated email rejection isn’t a personal affront but a fact of professional life, or that if someone is paying you any sort of wage at all to do a job that involves interacting with other humans, they have the right to be picky about anything they please—including how you look. (More job ideas for Ash: telemarketer, virtual assistant, remote phone operator, truck driver, transcriptionist, embalmer, bookkeeper, grave digger, research scientist.)

Tell me in the comments: What’s the kindest, most sincere and genuinely helpful advice you’d give to Ash if you could? (Bonus points for not swearing or calling her a millennial twatbucket.)