I thought ending things with my hairdresser would be simple, just a quiet switch, no drama. Instead, it turned into a full-blown escape plan involving hats, fake names, and emotional damage control.
I’ve had the same hairdresser for eight years. Her name is Lina, and she’s been giving me the same haircut since Obama’s second term.
I had resigned myself to this fate when Lina started doing something quite unexpected that put me out of my comfort zone.
See, for years, my hairdresser would cut my hair into medium-length layers, with vague face-framing, and a blowout that lasted roughly as long as my motivation to socialize. The look was fine, Lina was fine, and the whole thing was aggressively fine.
I didn’t stick with her out of loyalty or love; I just didn’t know how to leave. There never seemed to be a clean way to say, “Hey, I think I want to pay someone else to touch my scalp now.” Breaking up with a romantic partner is somehow less complicated.
At least then you’re allowed to cry and block them on Instagram.
Hairdressers? I learned quite late that they are a different breed.
Every time I reluctantly went over to do my hair, I left the salon looking vaguely refreshed and slightly windburned.
Like someone had walked me briskly through a car wash with good intentions. But breaking up with my hairdresser was an advanced form of confrontation, and I am the human version of a “maybe later” button.
You need to understand Lina, she’s… intense.
Not in a mean way, though. She’s just the kind of person who narrates every snip like she’s hosting a makeover show no one else can hear.
She calls me and others “babe.” My hairdresser also tells me I have “rich undertones,” which I’m pretty sure is her way of saying my hair is black and will always be black, no matter how many reference photos I bring in.
I kept going to her because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t want to anymore. Because saying, “This isn’t working for me,” feels dramatic when you’re talking about split ends.
And also because I live in a city where running into people you’re avoiding is basically a civic pastime.
But then one day, Lina got a ring light and everything changed.
My name is Camila. I’m 34, a part-time librarian, and a full-time procrastinator. I live alone, love quiet routines, and have a complicated emotional relationship with confrontation, escalators, and anyone who uses the phrase “you got this!” unironically.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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