To Upskill Or Not to Upskill?

If you were like me a couple of months ago and deemed not “essential” enough to remain employed, you probably hit up every Facebook job ad and ‘no experience required’ post known to man in the weeks that followed. I reckon I swallowed my pride so many times applying for supermarket and delivery gigs that my tonsils were about ripe for extraction. Anyway, before being thrown a life-vest by Scomo’s swift ‘LeaderSHIP’ (Jobseeker and Jobkeeper schemes), I found myself desperate to reel in any paying job or prospect I could latch onto.

On one occasion, I was actually fortunate enough to get a call back from a large recruitment agency suggesting I upskill by attending a TAFE course to better my employment opportunities. Considering this was my first reply that wasn’t a hard NO, I clung to it like mouldy cheese on an old toastie machine. After realising I probably wasn’t going to have a better chance of finding a job any sooner than the average course length of 6-8 weeks, I registered to attend the TAFE’s free information session. Despite being a paper-pushing, swivel-chair enthusiast at heart, this was my IN.

 

MEME

The session took place in a part town many wouldn’t venture to if not for very good reason. “Right next to Zambrero’s” were the directions given. And all in all, it was actually very insightful. As I sat there, 1.5 metres away from my nearest fellow job seeker, I realised I was much more entertained by the people in attendance than the courses being discussed. With my back against the wall and no government support forthcoming at the time, I listened to every word throughout the session.

I suppose what I’m saying is, if you’re looking to navigate a clear path ahead so you’re all set for when the Government turns the money tap off, consider attending a TAFE info session yourself. Here’s a list of memorable characters I encountered which should help you on your way.

Over-enthusiastic, swoll AF hype man

Tasked with introducing the presenters, courses and escorting you to the presentation room, this guy’s got more confidence in his right bicep than most men have in their ability to pee straight at night with the lights off. It can be daunting stepping foot into a new environment, especially a new area of study or work, so it’s important to be surrounded by people like this guy that’ll confidently tell you what IS possible, as well as what’s NOT.

Jaded 40-something who’s done his research

When you’re too scared to ask the hard-hitting questions, like “how much does this course REALLY cost?” the guy in the back who’s not afraid to share what he knows is really going to help you out. Many TAFE courses offer concession rates that vary according to your situation, so you can be sure ol’ mate carrying the weight of 20 years industry experience and an entire family on his shoulders is going to ask what you may not be willing to. He may hog question time, but this guy’s your hero.

Trainwreck

Be prepared for this loose unit to stroll in 10 minutes late with bright green hair, or earlobes spaced so wide you could throw paper aeroplanes through them. Most of us think before we speak, but the sheer volume of unfiltered outbursts from this guy did in fact lead to some insightful discussions within the class. If you’re too afraid to ask the ‘dumb’ questions, hopefully he’s around to do it for you.

Mr. Industry Contacts

The first lecturer of the morning, this career-hardened journeyman pushed 65 and appeared ready to caravan around the country never to return. With an encyclopedia of industry contacts, he’s got the skills, know-how and connections to work almost every course offered, and probably has. It’s always helpful to hear from someone who has “been there, done that” and can directly help you achieve your goals. To be honest, it was a shame he only stuck around for 20 mins as he had a lot to say. Become a sponge when this guy is around. He’s the key into your preferred industry.

For those of you wondering about the lack of female representation in this short list, I can honestly say it’s due to the shockingly male-dominated attendance I experienced. While I have no clear reason why that would be, I can only hope the nation treats all workers according to their past experience, and not the gender they identify with, when the workforce gradually pieces itself back together.

I should probably also note that to this date I haven’t yet chosen to pursue a field of study at TAFE, or any other trade college to upskill for when all this is over. Call it pride, indecisiveness… even a false sense of security. But I’ll tell you what; being eligible to claim Jobkeeper, required to work occasionally and left with enough time to pursue your real passions is not the worst way to live.

 

 

Locked up in Lockdown

Housemates or cellmates? Let’s be honest, they’re a bit of a blur right now.

It’s been 21 long days since the Government’s self-isolation measures transformed my once amicable sharehouse into Cell Block D of Shawshank. And everyday is lockdown.

While I do feel for those sorry souls living alone right now, being cooped up with your girlfriend and friend for an indefinite period of time feels a lot like serving a jail sentence… If you were in a white-collar jail, in a nice neighbourhood… and all your neighbours were also in jail.

With myself and girlfriend relegated to ‘non-essential’ employment status and our housemate, Callum, one of those privileged work-from-home types, the subtle niceties that once kept our household civil have totally evaporated. I’d roll out of bed at 9:05am and hit Cal with a sarcastic “You’re late for work, bro!” as he whipped up eggs in the kitchen. “At least I’ve got a job, loser!” he’d fire back. That was Day 2! Now we just acknowledge eachother’s presence with a shrug or middle-finger salute.

 

Pinterest

But spare a thought for those living with +5 roomies. Especially male ones. Because in every male sharehouse, while you’ve got at least one recluse who cleans up after himself, you’ll likely also find ‘The Farter,’ ‘The Dirty-dish Stacker, and ‘The Loud-Music-Until-1am-Or-I-Fall-Asleep Blaster’. Cal and I seem to do alright covering most of these off between us.

And now for my girlfriend, Claire; the resident prison guard. While there are benefits to her reorganising my clothing drawers without request, Claire’s OCD around cleanliness has driven Cal and I to the edge a number of times already. When she’s not glued to her virtual language classes, she’s scrubbing the kitchen within an inch of it’s life and cracking the whip at anyone seen misplacing a glass. You don’t wanna ask what happens to those leaving crumbs on the cooking area.

With yard time (walks around the ‘block’) and shopping trips the only way to escape the monotony of cell life, we find ourselves looking for any excuse to leave the house. “We’re out of Tzatziki… Looks like we’ll have to go shopping again this arvo.” Desperate times. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for some fresh air, especially since a potent concoction of methane bombs has taken up residence in every room of the house.

Funnyism

But when you put all of our developed, western world struggles into perspective, we know we’ve got it pretty good. Before all of this Corona-based hysteria began, Claire committed to sponsoring a child for $60 a month. Little Justine from Uganda. And considering Justine doesn’t have the option of social-distancing from neighbours living metres away, or drinking water without fetching it herself, it makes you realise who’s really serving the sentence.

There’s no doubt this period of social solitude will change our behaviour in some way moving forward. For many, it’ll be practical changes, like avoiding that wet kiss on the cheek from Nanna, or washing hands with soap after using public toilets. Other’s might finally spend those designated drinking dollars that had gathered dust for months in their account, or find themselves swapping the home gym for local muscle house to build on those iso-gains. All those movies about guys being released from jail with new hobbies and zest for life must be relatable to us, right?

I know it might feel like we’re a prisoner to our surroundings now, but when it’s all said and done, I think we’ll subconsciously miss this time at home.

One thing’s for sure… I’ll be taking my scrawny ass back to Nando’s first thing.

Short, Back and Sides

A little story about an unfortunate trip to the hairdresser. Completely fictional but not all that unrelatable… 

 

Short, back and sides. Four words Lizzie would have heard most days for the last 40 years. I sit patiently along the soft, worn-out bench at my local hairdresser. Two older gentlemen sit either side of me.

It was 9:30am. Too early to be out of bed on a Saturday morning in my opinion. Today though, was no ordinary Saturday. Today, was to be my wedding day.

Of course, a haircut on your wedding day is not ideal. But procrastination can be debilitating for some, and let me tell you, it feeds off deadlines.

“Zach?” asks a woman, peering around the service desk. Her eyes land on me, obviously. You don’t meet too many men above 60, like the ones next to me, with a name beginning with “Z.”

I walk over to the only empty chair in the salon and notice the woman’s name badge sitting low on her faded shirt, probably symbolic of her dwindling passion for the craft. ‘Lizzie,’ it read. Forty years fighting follicles, I’d say. Tuck-shop lady arms, a subtle limp on one side. Yeah, it showed.

“And what are we doing today?” she asks, slipping what I would describe as a ‘hair-cape’ into the back of my shirt.

“Short, back and sides,” I reply. “And just a smidge off the top.” I lift one hand around the cape, leaving half a centimetre between my thumb and index finger as to provide a reference point. Today was not a day for ambiguity.

She grabs the closest clippers, no battery. She pulls out a second set, previously hidden under a stray hair towel. This one buzzes.

“Got much on today?” she asks. I feel the heavy vibrations of the clippers against my skull.

“I don’t think so, really.”

Not one for small talk, I wasn’t about to share today’s proceedings with a chin-wagging specialist. Lizzie pulls out the scissors, running her wrinkly hands through the top of my head. She grasps a handful of strands, leaving no hair between her hand and my skull. Surely she’s not going that short, is she?

I notice my palms becoming sweatier by the second as Lizzie tighten hers grip, lining up each strand as they curl around her fingers.

She extends her thumb through the scissors, about to hit the trigger on her hair rifle.

Taking aim at the roots, she leans closer to my head, clamps down on the scissors and…

CHOP.

There’s been a terrible mistake. That’s not a half a centimetre. That’s two months of growth, gone. Just like that.

I wait for a reaction.

Nothing.

For 10 long minutes, she continues to replicate the deforestation of the Amazon Rainforest on my scalp. I feel the Mercury rising. Surely it’s hotter in here now than when I arrived.

They say life flashes before your eyes in its final moments. The same could be said when your head looks like hurricane Katrina has just passed through it.

Absolutely devastating. And hours before my wedding, no less.

“All done! How’s that?” she asks proudly.

“Amazing!” I reply, eager to escape the atrocity in the mirror and be on my way.

But on my way to where? I can’t be seen in public like this… or at home, or anywhere.

I pay at the front desk and walk out.

“I’ll see you next time!” she shouts.

She smiles.

I smile.

Shattered.