Here’s a question: have you ever left the salon after a haircut and thought to yourself “why would they do this to me?” If you’ve had at least one haircut in your life the answer is surely an unequivocal ‘yes.’ What I’ve come to realize is that death and taxes are not the only two things you can count on in life. There’s a third, which is you will come upon a hairstylist who will downright ignore your instructions and do whatever the hell they want.

Why is this? Do they think it’s their hair they’re cutting? They have one simple job and it’s to follow the wishes of the person who has to live with the results. The long and short of it is I cannot think of anyone I know who hasn’t been victimized by a hairstylist.

I say all this because a few weeks ago, my hair had grown to a point where it made me slightly uncomfortable. It had been six months since I’d last had it cut and I was starting to look straggly and witch-like. I asked my very chic cousin if she thought I needed a trim and she said “you could?” which to me translated to, “you look like a witch, get it cut.” Upon reflection, I now realize that my hair at the time was not witch-like, but more mermaid-like. It was beautiful and everything I had ever wanted.

I went into my haircut appointment confident I wouldn’t be screwed over. My hair was long enough that even if my stylist were to cut a little more than the amount I requested, (I’m not naïve; I assumed they would), it’d remain long. Still, I made sure to make my directions clear: After she washed my hair, led me to the styling chair, and threw the nylon cape around me, I said in my most serious tone and with the gravest of looks, “Give me the smallest trim you have ever given in your entire life.”

Easy, right? No way to misinterpret that? She laughed it off and told me she understood. But just to make absolutely sure, I reemphasized, “No, I’m serious.” Once again, she assured me not to worry. And even though there was no reason for me to really trust her, she said it with such certitude that it made me reluctant to ever mention it again lest I get on her creative nerves.

I couldn’t see what she was doing back there, but after I heard the scissor cut across my hair a mere two times, I knew I was in trouble. Once again I was overcome with that helpless, sinking, out of control feeling that my directions went unheeded and disastrous consequences awaited. It was too late to say anything, but even if it wasn’t, I was too uncomfortable and timid to interject.

So I sat there silently, staring at the ground, watching sentimental pieces of my hair that took months to grow out from the last traumatizing haircut, fall to the ground. Meanwhile, she chatted away like all was right with the world, while mine was falling apart. It’s almost like she was trying to distract me with her talking so I didn’t realize what she was doing.

When she finished, she spun me around to have a look at her handiwork, I wasn’t the least bit surprised by what I saw. It’s what I deserved for being stupid enough to get my hair cut in the first place. My mermaid locks were gone, dead, a thing of the past. In its place was a near lob with one long strand on each side of the front that she either forgot to cut or sincerely believed could pass as layers. Maybe she wanted me to have two pieces of long hair to remember how good it used to look? Or so I’d have a lasting reminder to never get another haircut for as long as I shall live. I don’t know. I literally could not tell you, but it seems like the mantra of most hairstylists is “What’s this, hair? You don’t need it! I’m going to chop it all off and have you leave here crying.”

A bad haircut has the potential to affect everything: the way you feel about yourself, what you look like in clothes, how others see you, how you look in pictures, how big your nose looks. I felt like I just had surgery and it would take six months for me to be myself again. And of course, like with every other bad haircut, when she asked me what I thought I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. All I could muster was a weak and squeaky, “I love it.” Better to walk around with a hideous haircut than hurt the poor woman’s feelings. Also why even bother? Nothing can be done about it. Other things can be repaired—toilets, cars, teeth, but not hair. You can only wait at a snail’s pace for growth.

In no other profession does someone ignore the wishes of the client like this one. Take lawyers. Lawyers will often disagree with a client but in the end they’re still all, “Okay if that’s what you want.” Even in the case of a doctor, when you’re opting not to get a surgery that could save your life, they’ll still say, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, but it’s your choice!”

Perhaps hairstylists want to make the haircut drastic enough on the off chance that someone notices, likes it, and wants to know who did it. Maybe they think of it as their own personal walking advertisement. And if they gave you the little trim you wanted, no one would notice their “artistry.” Just a theory.

I don’t know what the solution is. Maybe all haircuts could be done in stages to avoid anxiety and trauma. After each inch they could spin you around and ask for a green light to proceed, as opposed to waiting until the very end when you have no choice, and they’ve ruined your life. Or maybe you just have to manipulate them. With lies. Lie your ass off. If you want a bob, say you want your hair to reach your nipple. If you want it to your collarbone, say you just want to cut your split ends. Next time I’m going to treat my hairstylist like that one friend I have who’s late all the time: by telling them the reservation is fifteen minutes earlier than it is. But in this case, I’ll make it an hour.

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