The day had finally come. The horrific day when my hair had grown down to the lower half of my back. Ever since I was a kid, growing my hair out has been of the utmost importance. Hair health was practically a family value. In our Indian tradition, a girl should never cut her hair. Unfortunately, a little thing called split ends ended that tradition. So instead, we compromise by keeping our hair very long.
To make it grow that long, my mom and grandma had a system. They would mix together a magical concoction of coconut oil and rosemary oil, warm it up and massage it into my scalp. After that, it would sit in my hair for over two hours before I washed it out. Honestly, it was the best thing ever: my hair stayed shiny, my scalp stayed hydrated and apparently, it turned my hair into some kind of rapidly growing plant. Which is how I ended up with hair almost to my lower back and ends that were… let us say artistically uneven.
Now, there are two things you should know about me.
First: I despise haircuts. And not in a cute, “oh, I’m nervous” way. No. I hate them because I have absolutely no idea how long an inch actually is. To some hairstylists, an inch means half your head and suddenly you walk out looking like Dora the Explorer. To others, an inch means approximately the size of a fingernail and it looks like you paid $60 for absolutely nothing.
The second thing about me is that I have the thinnest hair possible. I have a lot of it, but each strand individually is about the thickness of a whisper. My hair also loves static electricity and has the natural volume of a wet noodle. The only thing I ever ask a hairstylist for is simple:
“Please. I beg of you. Give me volume.”
And every time they respond with: “Of course!” before aggressively adding layers upon layers that somehow still leave my hair looking flat. It is honestly impressive.
Sometimes I think hairstylists perform haircuts like it is theater. They twist your hair up and down, pull out three different types of scissors and dramatically cut the same piece five times. If it ends up uneven, they just blame it on “layers.” And somehow we all accept that explanation.
But what do I know? I am just the terrified customer sitting there, wondering if my hair will somehow look worse when I leave.
Still, I knew I needed a haircut. So I took a deep breath and booked an appointment for 4 p.m. during spring break.
Now, the day before my appointment, the weather in St. Louis was perfect: sunny, 70 degrees, zero wind, bright blue sky. It felt like the universe was supporting my decision.
Naturally, the next day was the exact opposite.
It was raining. Not the polite, gentle kind of rain you can hide from with an umbrella. No. This rain attacked from the side and slapped you in the face. But my appointment was already booked, and there was a cancellation fee involved, so obviously I decided to suffer through it.
I arrived at the salon: Studio 703. I had heard great reviews about the place, although those great reviews came with a $60 haircut price tag, which was slightly terrifying.
The inside was beautiful. There were chandeliers, pops of neon yellow everywhere, faux plants and separate stations for shampooing and cutting. It looked less like a salon and more like somewhere a reality TV makeover show might film.
My appointment was with a stylist named Taylor. She seemed really sweet and welcoming. Even though she did not have as much experience as some of the other stylists I could have booked, there was something calming about her that made me feel like I could trust her.
She greeted me with the biggest smile and led me to the shampoo station. As she washed my hair with aromatic shampoos, we talked about college, how she went to Mizzou, how I had visited Mizzou on breaks and how she loved Portugal when I talked about studying abroad. She gave me a head massage that was honestly so relaxing I almost forgot I was about to get my hair cut.
Almost.
Then it was time for the chair.
I showed her my inspiration picture and explained what I wanted: shorter, lots of layers and most importantly, volume. She asked what I did not want, and I told her very clearly: no straight-across cut and no “just a trim.”
And then there I was. Draped in the cape. Officially trapped in the chair. There was no escape now.
I had to trust Taylor.
When she finished cutting, my hair was still wet, which meant the real test would be the blow-dry. So I closed my eyes while she worked. I could feel the heat from the blow dryer and the twisting motion as she styled my hair.
Finally, she said she was done.
Before opening my eyes, I told myself: “It is just hair. It will grow back.”
I opened my eyes.
And honestly… I was shocked.
Volume. Actual volume. Beautiful layers. Curtain bangs that framed my face perfectly. Somehow she had done exactly what I asked for.
I loved it.
As I checked out, I said goodbye to Taylor, already knowing I would be coming back to her again. I immediately started calling everyone I knew to show them my new haircut.
So maybe haircuts are not the enemy after all.
Maybe the real challenge is just finding the right person to trust, the person who will actually listen and understand what you want.
Now I know my go-to style.
And more importantly, I know exactly who is cutting my hair next time.