In my current job at a labour hire company, I interview a colourful range of people. Today I was asked to pinch hit for one of the recruiters and conduct a flexibility screening on a woman who was interviewing for a traffic controller position.
The flex screening is designed to make sure everyone is physically capable of being on any given site. It starts with a weigh-in.
“Hi,” I said to the woman, who shall be called Joy for the purposes of this post.
“Well, hi, there!” Joy bubbled. “So nice to meet you.”
“OK, let’s get started by jumping on the scale.”
Joy held up a hand. “I weigh 120 kilos,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I’m very big-boned.” She held up a broad paw to illustrate her point.
The scale didn’t lie, and neither did Joy. She did, indeed, weigh 120 kilos.
“Next I’ll have you stand in front of the height measurement,” I said.
Joy began to comply, then gasped. I thought she had forgotten to turn off the iron at home, or left her child at the grocery store. It was that kind of gasp.
“Gee, you’re awfully young to have grey hair!” she said. To me. “When did that happen? How old are you?”
Flabbergasted, I answered. “I know,” I said, as if we were old friends catching up after a long absence. “Since I was about 25! I’m 28 now.”
Joy leaned towards me. “I’ve got greys, too,” she said. Joy was 52. Her words failed to reassure me.
Thirteen years of weird jobs, and I wonder where the grey hairs come from.