I work as a hairdresser. I have a rich client—glamorous, sharp, the type who always wore designer everything and never looked anything less than perfect. A couple of days after her last visit, she called me in tears.“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she sniffled. “But I’ve lost my diamond earrings. The ones my husband gave me for our anniversary. I swear, they must’ve fallen off while I was at your salon. Did you… happen to find them?”
I remembered she’d been fidgeting with her earrings during her appointment. I glanced around the salon, then bent down and pushed back the small table near my chair. Sure enough—glinting in the shadow under the leg—were two delicate diamond studs. I picked up the phone. “Yes! I just found them, actually!”
She gasped. “Oh, thank God. I’m coming right now!” Twenty minutes later, she burst through the door, still dressed in designer loungewear, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Her eyes were red and puffy. I held out the earrings. She stared at them for a second too long. Then slowly said, “Yes… they’re mine! But I’m going to have to call the police.” I froze. “Wait—what? Why?”
She looked me dead in the eyes. “Because they weren’t here when I called you. Someone must have planted them to make it look like I dropped them here. That someone stole them.” My jaw dropped. “You think I stole your earrings… and then returned them?” “I don’t know what to think,” she said, voice cold. “But my husband is convinced they were stolen. And if I don’t report this, it’s going to be my problem.”