Louis Vuitton would not be impressed.

Once upon a time, I worked at a medi-spa which specialized in non-invasive fat and cellulite reduction treatments. The medi-spa was run by a physician who, long before I arrived, had put into place some very strict yet necessary protocol regarding new clients. This protocol involved the obtaining of a potential client's credit card number in order to secure his or her appointment. Any time a client gave their credit card number, they were told that they would be charged the full fee for any appointment missed, if they failed to cancel or reschedule a minimum of twenty-four hours prior to said appointment. Every client, new and returning, was given this information over the phone and in all emails confirming and reminding them of their appointments. When I came to work for the spa, I took this protocol very seriously.

One morning, this strange woman walked in. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties. She would have been pretty except that she had dried green crust clinging to her nostrils and a vacant look in her eyes. She was dressed well and she was carrying a brand-new Louis Vuitton bag - one of those bags that's so big it could hold the kitchen sink, only this one looked sunken in, as if it were empty. The woman walked up to my desk, staring and unsmiling. She was breathing through her mouth and from where I was sitting I could smell her sour breath. I inched my chair backwards because I didn't want to catch whatever bug was making her face look like a neglected preschoolers. All that dried snot was extremely unsettling.

"Can I help you?" I asked.
"I want my money." Snot Nose had been staring at me for at least twenty seconds and she hadn't blinked yet.
"I'm sorry?"
"You stole from me." Her lower lip began to tremble.
"I don't.... I don't understand."
"You stole from me three hundred dollars!" She was nearly shouting. "I make appointment and I cannot come from school and you steal three hundred dollars! I am very poor! I want my money!" If she's so poor, I thought, why is she carrying a Louis Vuitton bag? 

I asked for her name and when she gave it, it was as if she'd hit a refresh button on my brain. I knew exactly who she was and why she was accusing me of having stolen three hundred dollars from her. 

A few weeks before, she'd sent an email through the spa website asking for an appointment. She explained that she was a student at NYU, new to the U.S. and "very fat". She lamented her weight and her feeling that she had no time for exercise and no money for healthy food. She mentioned several times that she was "very poor" but willing to spend the money on the treatments if we thought they would work for her. Lastly, she requested that all communication be via email as her English was not very good and she found it much simpler to communicate in writing. 

My first thought was, if this woman is so poor, why is she spending money on these fancy treatments? Seriously. It's like Octo-Mom spending California tax dollars on acrylic nails and Starbucks runs. Not smart. But it's not my place to judge, so I wrote the woman back suggesting she schedule a free consultation with the doctor to determine how well the treatments might work before she just jumped in and started spending money. She wrote back that she didn't want a consult, she just wanted to get treatment started. When I replied to set the appointment I stated, in very clear terms, our cancellation policy. I explained that her credit card would be charged $150 if she did not cancel or reschedule a minimum of twenty-four hours prior to her appointment. She wrote back, "No problem!" and gave me her credit card info. 

She never showed up for her appointment. I sent a courtesy email expressing our regret that she did not cancel in a timely matter and that I had no choice but to comply with our standard policy. And then I charged her credit card $150.

A few days later, she emailed again, apologizing for missing her appointment and asking to set up a new one. No problem! I set up the appointment and, again, reminded her of the costly cancellation policy.

She did not show up for that appointment, either. I charged her again. And now she was standing in front of me, green encrusted snotty nose, quivering lip, Louis Vuitton bag, and all. And she was accusing me of stealing from her. And she was staring at me as if her eyes were poisonous laser beams that would blow me into a pink mist.

I took a deep breath and began an attempt to explain the situation, from the spa's point of view. By the time I finished, her whole body was shaking. She was clutching her Louis Vuitton bag to her chest and her eyes were screaming with fury. She did not shout, but there was a terrifying ferocity in her voice and she spoke through clenched teeth: "GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY! GIVE ME MY MONEY!"

It suddenly occurred to me that she might be the type of person who would carry a sawed-off shotgun in her Louis Vuitton bag. I thought it might be time to call 9-1-1. Just as I was reaching for the phone, our cute FedEx guy opened the front door. 

"Good morning!" Cute FedEx Guy called out. The entryway is narrow and Snot-Nose was blocking his way. 

"Excuse me, miss" he said. He was pushing a dolly loaded with boxes and trying to get past her. She did not move. Her scary laser-beam eyes were locked on mine. I was trying very hard not to look as scared as I felt. 

"Miss, I'm sorry, I need to get by." Cute FedEx Guy tried again. And then it was as if a spell had broken. Snot-Nose gasped, turned on her heel, and rushed out the door. I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Cute FedEx Guy unloaded his boxes, I signed for them and he left. I was on my way back to the physicians office to tell her all about Snot Nose when Cute FedEx Guy poked his head back through the door.

"Miss Frost? You might want to lock your front door. That woman who was just in here? She's standing on the corner screaming bloody murder." And when he turned to leave, I could actually hear it all the way down the block, the blatant shrieking of a savage lunatic. But then again, what is New York City without a deranged, snot-nosed weirdo screaming on the corner?