Loss of a friend.
I went into Blaine Hair Salon down the street from my school for a trim. One inch, I said. I love my hair long—not that I absolutely love my hair, it’s one of my nemesises most of the time, but it’s just easier to deal with when it’s long. And for $5 it’s generally the best deal around. No way do I want to spend $30 every few months to take off only an inch. And that’s all I wanted. One inch, just to get rid of the split ends.
Guess how many inches they took off?
Ooooh I’m estimating about FOUR. And that’s lowballing it. My hair used to be halfway down my back, now it grazes my shoulders. And they had some clever tricks: starting in the back, so I wouldn’t see until it was far too late. And a sloppy blow-out that made it hard to see the HUGE BLUNT CHOPPINGS of my poor, poor hair.
Now my hair grazes my shoulders and frames my face in these huge, ugly chunks. I tried to fix it myself and it looks only slightly better.
I should have listened to the little voice in my head warning me not to do any beauty stunts before a trip where you want to look pretty. Oyyy.
So now Blaine hair salon has been responsible for my stolen cell phone, stolen peacoat, and stolen FOUR INCHES OF HAIR. I should know better by now, but I’ve never gotten a bad haircut there. Thought I’d be safe by keeping all valuables on my person this time. But they found this way to fuck me over. Nice.
I know, I know that I should not complain. It’s a school, they are there to learn, and I had to sign a little waiver saying I understood that they are students. But I think basic units of measurement should be taught on day one. Ugh!
