“Professionalism” is one of those concepts that tends to make me want to punch someone when it is discussed.
To me, professionalism means that you know your stuff. You’re able to behave in a professional manner; not use every swear in your vocabulary in front of clients, act polite, show a modicum of restraint and class, be honest and friendly. It does not mean that if you have bright red bangs, or a green fauxhawk, or visible tattoos and facial piercings you’re automatically an untrustworthy loser.
Full disclosure: I have 13 tattoos, six of which are visible if I’m wearing short sleeves. I also have a total of ten piercings, nine of which are visible (in my ears) and two of which are large stone plugs. I am also far, far more professional in my interaction with clients than some of the people I work with who are “normal” looking. I greet them, give compliments to the patients, make sincere small talk and listen to their often tedious stories, then wish them a pleasant day and encourage them to ask questions. With some of my coworkers, they’re lucky to get more than a grunt.
Unfortunately, my very appearance makes me “unprofessional” in the eyes of many people. Never mind that my tattoos are all well-done and non-offensive, or that I’m friendly and compassionate, or that I show up for work on time and work hard. Nope, my hair, piercings and ink mean that I’m a degenerate and shouldn’t be allowed near normal society.
This is important because I have that all-important third interview on Thursday. While I am fairly certain that the organization for which I am interviewing doesn’t have any sort of stupid appearance policy, I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize it. This means that tonight I’m dyeing my hair back to a single, normal color and will be wearing a long-sleeved shirt to the interview. In eighty degree weather. I guess I could just wear a suit.
On an unrelated note, I did my 4th week of C25K today. The first five minute bit wasn’t too bad, everything else was the usual intervals, but the last five minute interval was a See-You-Next-Tuesday. As always, I felt great afterwards, and not just because Mister E and I went for French toast and pancakes. My new playlist is fab-tastic, too. If I can just stay on track, I’ll be running in that 5K like no one’s business.
Unrelated, Part Two: some random kid just came to our door. He muttered something that sounded like “mota,” then went away. Came back a few seconds later, saying he was showing off his Japanese skills, then asked for a glass of water. Mister E was perplexed but obliged. We have so got to buy our own place and hang a “SEX OFFENDER LIVES HERE” sign on the front.