Those who know me know that my hair grows fast and that I need regular haircuts, or else my hairstyle starts looking like a mix between Wolverine and a mad scientist. Okay, perhaps I am over exaggerating a little, but I do care a lot about my hair.
So naturally, since I don’t know DC that well yet, I was putting off going to a hairdresser. But at the point where a tube of gel started lasting me two weeks, I had to choose between spending all my money on hair gel or have my hair done by an unknown person. While being hesitant, I started roaming Yelp for a “well-respected” hairdresser that didn’t have prior experience as a landscaper. Eventually, I found a place with 400 reviews and an average of four stars not too far from Capitol Hill. Couldn’t be bad, so I decided to go for it.
What resulted out of my adventure was, to me at least, a nightmare. Everything started out “okay,” standard chit chat, but at some point, the person cutting my hair touches my eyebrow with the clipper. At first, I didn’t notice the line in my eyebrows, as I thought it was a reflection, after noticing I immediately asked her what she did with my eyebrow. Her first reaction was “oops” and continued without saying anything. After a few moments of being baffled, I scrape enough courage together to ask her what she was going to do about my eyebrows. She said, and I quote: “I am not sure that I can make the hair grow back.” Again, she continues, and I sit there, being baffled for a few moments and respond: “Yes, okay, BUT WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT MY EYEBROWS?!” What then followed was an awkward conversation where she eventually offered me a $10 discount. Okay, I guessed, I’ll take it and never come back here and walked home. While walking back, I started getting worried what people would think about me, as to me, it looked like something I did to myself on purpose as a stupid fashion statement. While finally getting home and assessing the damage, I saw something else that was way worse than the eyebrow: a perfectly straight lined bald spot on the side of my head.
An abrupt ending to my story, but a wise lesson: don’t trust hairdressers.