The Haircut

Oh lord. She’s screwing up, I thought. I looked back and forth between the picture I found on Google and the stranger I saw in the mirror.

The moment I entered the salon, the overwhelming smell of chemicals struck me. The lights were dim and the seats dirty. I knew something bad was going to happen as soon as she whipped out a pair of huge kitchen scissors and began hastily hacking away my hair.

“Sorry, can I talk to my mom for a sec?” I squeezed out, nervously avoiding eye contact.

“Sure sweetie,” she slurred.

“MOM!” I hissed.

“What?” She paused to look at me. Not particularly at me, but at my now chin-length hair. “Oh,” she gasped.


“I told you already, but she’s a professional–”

I gestured madly at my new head of hair and our surrounding. “You call this professional?”

“Just sit down and let’s see what happens,” she whispered with a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

I stomped back to my chair and plopped down. The lady was holding a pair of different scissors.

“Just trust me, and I’ll make you pretty,” she playfully nudged. She began hacking away once more as I closed my eyes to prevent little hairs from getting into my eyes.

“Done,” she said as she wiped her hands on her dirty apron, unnecessarily satisfied with the atrocity.

I opened my eyes.

I had bangs.

Oh crap. I told her specifically that I didn’t want bangs.

I felt my throat tighten with anger as I turned to glare at my mom. She was laughing. The next few minutes were a blur as the money was handed to the fraud hairstylist as I left. My new hair reached just below my ears, the bangs hanging loose and mockingly. I looked as if I were stamped out from a cookie cutter. Storming to the car, I began to cry and yelled “I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME HERE!”

From that moment on, I was always very careful about who I got my haircuts from. And every time my mom would take me, I remained slightly skeptical.


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