To the Stylist Who Butchered My Daughter’s Hair
Posted at 7:51 am , on September 8, 2015
It was my fault, really. I had no business setting foot in your salon with my over-tired Kindergartener and her unruly little sister. Not when I was this tired myself. Not when I had already endured one of the worst mornings ever. I should have known better.
My mom tried to talk me out of it. “They don’t need haircuts,” she said. “Just trim their bangs and be done with it,” she said. I should have listened.
But I didn’t. Because we had family pictures scheduled for 9:00am the next morning with my husband’s whole family. Remember? I told you about it when we showed up and you said you could squeeze us in. I bet you saw it in my eyes – you knew I had a hell of a day, and you just wanted to help a tired mama out.
So Reese sat in your chair and I told you just to trim it and thin it. (That girl has so much hair). You started spraying and combing and cutting; and we started chatting the way women do in hair salons.
I’m still not sure how it happened. Maybe you were behind on appointments because you squeezed in a last-minute walk-in. Maybe you were distracted by my toddler running laps around your product display. Maybe you’ve got some personal stuff going on. Maybe you just plain weren’t paying attention.
You reached for the thinning shears, but you grabbed the scissors instead.
I heard you gasp and I looked down and you were holding a massive chunk of my daughter’s hair. And I just froze because I couldn’t believe my eyes.
My precious little girl. The one with hair halfway down her back. The one who just told you she wants to be like Rapunzel. The one sitting in your chair with a chunk of hair cut all the way up to her ear.
I won’t even pretend that I didn’t have an urge to freak out. To yell, “What have you done?!?!” To snatch Reese from your chair and lead her away and assure you that we would never, ever come back here. Did I not just tell you we have pictures tomorrow?!
But what message would that send to you about who I am and what I believe? What message would that send to my daughter about walking in grace?
I saw your hands shaking, your eyes brimming with tears. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” You said it over and over.
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