Open Letter to My Hairstylist

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Dear ————-,


I have been trying very hard these last two weeks to accept what you have done to my head. But I can’t. I just can’t! Every morning, I find it hard not to cry while attempting to style the so-called haircut you gave me. I just don’t think you understood me when I said, “Cut it like it is now, only an inch or two shorter.” I’m afraid you misheard me, or perhaps you just weren’t paying attention. I am really very sure that I did not say, “Just chop it all off randomly, especially on top and around the ears.” Nor did I say, “I want to look as if I had my hair cut by a John Deere riding mower.”


I hate to complain, but I feel so violated. Humiliated, even. Gone are my smooth, shiny “Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction” locks. My sleek vintage look has been utterly destroyed in the name of trendiness. I can’t express how “not me” this look is. Whose haircut is this, anyway? I am too old for this and I look ridiculous. All I need is a My Chemical Romance t-shirt and I could disappear into any high school in the United States. No one could possibly take me seriously looking like this! I’m sure you weren’t thinking in terms of my professional life when you made certain executive decisions concerning my hair.


I have one good thing to say: I love the color. The blue-black with a few red chunks in it is exactly what I wanted. The thing is, I wanted that color with my haircut, not Psycho the Clown’s haircut. Any possible good done by the color is far outweighed by the fact that I have to apply three different products just to keep it from looking like Darth Vader’s helmet. I hate “product” in my hair. I want it to feel like hair, I want it to move with me. This stuff up on my head, it is definitely not moving.


The other night, my boyfriend wanted to make love to me. I said, “No.” You know why? Because I feel fucking hideous, and it’s all your fault, that’s why! I know, maybe that’s a little TMI, but I need you to comprehend how profoundly upset I am by your lack of listening skills. Maybe if you slow down and read this letter four or five times, the next person in your chair won’t end up hiding her $120 haircut under a brown paper bag.

Thank you for your time.

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