What I'll endure to avoid complaining

As it's bad for your health (and I'm spineless).

An audio version is available here for paying subscribers.

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My inability to complain is best illustrated by something that happened when I got (briefly) married at 36. My age is very relevant as I was not some Diana-like, shy, blushing bride of twenty. I had a mortgage, a sewing kit and I’d get excited on a hot, sunny day as I could dry my washing outside. I was a grown-up.

Between the proposal and the wedding, there were 18 months, which is a long time to get everything sorted. But I left it so late to get a dress that when I did finally go to a few shops they all gasped when I told them my wedding date (a bit theatrically I thought) then took me to a dark corner of the shop with a small rail of dresses which could be ordered in time.

As is probably apparent, I wasn’t a child who dreamed of her wedding day. I was too busy daydreaming about being on Top of the Pops. The closest I got was being vaguely jealous of the girls in my class at primary school who were growing their hair for bridesmaid duties that summer. Whilst being unsure why I was vaguely jealous or why they needed long hair.

So I never had an idea in my head of how I was going to look. I just knew that if you do have a wedding day, you’re supposed to look the best version of yourself.

I had a hairdresser at the time who I really liked and she’d agreed to do my hair on the day. She also mentioned having a good friend who did make-up and would I like her to come along and do my face. I hadn’t really thought about this but I’m terrible at make-up so I said yes.

Other brides-to-be probably get recommendations. Possibly even scour through websites or portfolios. Not me. I’m not a complete idiot though. A week or so beforehand I booked a trial session to decide on my look and check she was okay. I told her what I wanted. She did my face. And I looked terrible. So I did the only thing I could. I said, “Thank you very much, see you on the 26^th.”

Then I got the train to work and tried to rub the blusher and wonky eyeliner off and was embarrassed about going to the office looking like that. But rather than tell the make-up lady I didn’t like it, and my hairdresser that I thought her friend was rubbish, I was going to go to my own wedding looking like that.

I just accepted my fate and decided I would not look in any way my best on my own wedding day as this was far preferable to confronting the situation and there being any awkwardness. I also figured, who is looking at the bride’s face? They’re just looking at her dress and into her eyes in an attempt to detect any regret, fear or panic.

As it was, my make-up was fine on the day. Maybe she’d seen something in my eyes and upped her game. Maybe she got new glasses. But it was totally fine. Certainly much better than anything I can do. So I honestly think I did the right thing.

Not me

I don’t understand why there’s so much negativity around not complaining about bad service or products. You’re considered spineless and lily-livered if you don’t stand up for yourself. But I’m not alone in my reluctance to put up with something worse instead of making a fuss.

A 2018 survey found 28% of Brits avoid complaining about situations such as bad haircuts, poor meals or bad service in a shop. And that percentage is even higher for younger people aged 16 to 24. So not only do I feel less alone but I feel more youthful. By not complaining you are down with the kids. As long as you never say ‘down with the kids.’ The younger generation also explained they don’t like to cause a scene and find complaining awkward. I’ve never related harder to Gen Z.

A survey in 2016 revealed 90% believe you should complain if unhappy about a service but only 36% actually do it. The main reasons for this inaction were it won’t make a difference, it’s more hassle than it’s worth and it’s too time-consuming. Yes, yes and yes!

I know with absolute certainty that nothing good has ever come of any complaint I’ve made. In a moment of utter madness never to be repeated again, when a new hairdresser held a mirror up to the back of my head I didn’t say, “Oh lovely, thank you”. I told her I didn’t like how she’d styled it. She was visibly annoyed. Probably because nobody has ever said anything other than, “Oh lovely, thank you” in this situation before. Ever. To any hairdresser. I felt awful and haven’t been able to go back to this salon again even though it’s the best in my area.

If you need any more persuading, complaining has been found to cause long-term damage to your health, according to a study at Stanford University. (Which I trust as that’s the university Minnie Driver was going to in Good Will Hunting.) They say something about how complaining shrinks the hippocampus, which is my favourite body part as it’s got the word ‘hippo’ in it. I don’t want any of my brain shrinking. I need the opposite. It also floods your body with cortisol. Nobody likes a flood (except God in Genesis) and excess cortisol is bad for you in pretty much every way.

So this is why I paid the window cleaner in full even after he fully admitted he hadn’t cleaned the kitchen window. And why I just pretended it hadn’t happened when the volunteer accidentally stabbed my finger with the Covid vaccine needle while on the way to my arm and then gave her top scores in the exit survey. And why I turned a blind eye when the Labour Party canvasser was sick on my doorstep and THEN knocked on my door.

Every single time I’ve felt better afterwards than if I’d made a fuss. So I’ll keep my lilied liver and my back without a spine. Let’s leave the complaining to that 36%. Let them keep standards up. They’re probably good at it. They might even enjoy it. There’s no point in the rest of us muddying the waters with our ineffectual whines. And our hippocampi are going to get massive.