I’m a woman, and in my destitute student years, there was a period of time when I couldn’t be bothered about hair in general, and I didn’t feel like paying a hairdresser a fortune, so whenever I went home for the weekend, I’d just borrow my dad’s beard trimmer and give myself a really short trim. 

At that point, I did not own a hair trimmer of my own. This was a mistake on my part. 

On a weekend visit to home, I decided it was time for a hair trim. Unfortunately, I decided to do it a little late, only about thirty minutes before I had to catch my train back to my dorm. 

That would have been all right, except that my dad’s trimmer chose that exact time to run out of batteries. So, there I was, with a half-trimmed head, in a rush to go, or otherwise, I would have missed my train. 

I decided, “F*** it.” Knit hat on, onto the train, and off to my dorm room. 

There was a hair salon a block away from where I lived and on my way home, I decided to drop in to see if they had any emergency appointments. 

Me: “Excuse me, I completely messed up my hair over the weekend. Do you have any drop-in appointments?”

Hairdresser: “Sorry, we’re fully booked right now. How about Tuesday?”

Me: “That’s okay. I’ll just have to wear a hat until then, I guess.”

The hairdresser looked at me, looked at the hat, and looked back at me.

Hairdresser: “How bad is it?”

I took off my hat to show my half-trimmed hair. I honestly looked like a hedgehog with mange. 

Hairdresser: “You know what? I have a couple of minutes before my next appointment. Let’s get that taken care of.”

I was in and out of that chair in five minutes with a nice even trim, and when I took my wallet out to pay, the hairdresser just shook her head.

Hairdresser: “Honestly, this is like a public service. No charge, and keep track of the batteries in the future!”

It was an incredibly kind gesture, and by the time I was ready to deal with hair and the cost of maintaining it again, that hair salon and that hairdresser were my first choice.

It had been a while since I’d had a haircut, and my long hair was in need of a tidy-up. Because I had worked to get it to the condition it was in, strong and long, I made an appointment at a hairdresser that charges quite a premium for a haircut, thinking they would have more experience or knowledge on how to do hair. A haircut at this place costs what any other hairdresser would charge for a full wash, cut, dry, and basic style. 

The hairdresser did a great job with the front, and since I paid so much, I trusted that it was good at the back. (Mistake.) I paid and went home and started showing off to my husband.

My husband immediately picked up when I turned around that it was crooked; it was visible at the back but not noticeable at the front.

Rather than go somewhere else to pay for a whole haircut or put in a bad review, I wanted to give the first place a chance to fix the issue, so I called them. The hairdresser picked up, and I explained the issue. She immediately got defensive and just said, “But I checked it!” I had to be very assertive in correcting her because she did not believe me. She then booked for me to come back another day because they were closing for the day.

When I returned, it was the owner who glanced at my hair and said he couldn’t see the issue, and I had to argue that it was crooked. I sat down in the chair and he did some checks. I saw his face change, and he quietly went over to the original hairdresser, disguising it as getting equipment, and told her that it was crooked on the left side where my hair was wavy and bent in another direction. He thought I couldn’t hear, but I looked at him very pointedly so he knew I did.

After the correction cut, he told me that when I come in for a haircut, I should straighten my hair first since they like to dry cut and don’t want to wet and blow-dry hair after cutting it.

This place isn’t located anywhere that would charge a lot for rent or anything, either, so it’s not like the high price is to cover a cost another hairdresser wouldn’t face.

I haven’t gone back; I’ve found a hairdresser who charges a fair amount and makes sure my hair is cut straight.

I am somewhere between butch lesbian and trans man, which really only matters in that I wear The Butch Haircut — a buzz cut, basically. There’s maybe an inch on the top to pretend it’s professional.

I also at this point am having some problems with occasional blurry eyes. It fades in and out, so while I can drive perfectly well, I don’t really trust my own eyes sometimes.

I go into the salon, state what I want, and take off my glasses. This makes my vision blurrier. My hairdresser chats with the other hairdressers, which I’m fine with because I don’t like small talk.

Hairdresser: “Okay, you’re done!”

I put on my glasses, blink a little — well, that looks odd — and shrug and decide it’s just looking a bit funny because my eyes are blurry. I head off to do something quiet until I can see again, and when it clears up, I head home.

There are not a lot of mirrors in my house, so I don’t actually see what’s happened until I get out of the shower that night.

I have a mini-bowl cut over a half-shaved head.

The next day, I head into the salon and ask if they can fix it. The new hairdresser openly gasps in astonishment when I tell her what it’s supposed to be. She goes through about five or six different things that went wrong for the fix-it report they have to write before finally getting out the clippers and doing it properly.

I walked out with the correct haircut. I have not been back since.

When I was growing up, my father was very frugal and also fancied himself an artist with hair, so yes, he cut my hair, and there wasn’t much I could do about it until I got to college and went to a professional for the first time

I was in the chair, and we had this conversation.

Stylist: “My God! Who’s been cutting your hair? You’ve been going to a barber, haven’t you?”

Me: “Umm, yes, that’s right.”

Stylist: “Well, there’s only so much I can do here. I’ll do what I can, but it’s going to take time for your hair to grow out.”

Mind you, I never thought about my hair, so I didn’t realize it was a problem until the next time I went in. That time, I had my hair cut by the manager of the store.

Salon Manager: “Hey, can I ask where you got your hair cut last time?”

Me: “Oh, it was here.”

Salon Manager: *Getting visibly angry* “Who cut your hair?”

Me: “Oh, I don’t know. I think it was a guy.”

Salon Manager: *Getting angrier* “No, I want more than that. I want to know who did this to you.”

Me: “I have been getting my hair cut by my dad, and the guy told me last time that he would do all he could, but it would take time for it to grow out and look decent.”

Salon Manager: “Your dad, huh? Okay. Because this is not right.”

The next time I visited home, when my dad wanted to give me a trim because he could “match any stylist”, I just said no.

Since starting college, I try to get my haircut every two or three weeks. I go to the salon and ask for this barber who has worked there since I was a child and is a sort of family friend. I am a legal adult but am not allowed to make ANY decisions for myself especially for my own body. I’m also genderfluid, and my gender expression is usually masculine or androgynous.

I’m sitting on a chair waiting for him.

Barber: “Does your mom know?”

Me: “I literally just got here. Can you not, please?”

Barber: “Does your mother know you’re cutting your hair again?”

Me: “It’s just hair. My hair. It’ll grow back if I let it.”

Barber: “…so, undercut?”

Me: *Grins* “Yep!”

Barber: “You’ll look like a boy.”

Me: “IT’S. JUST. HAIR.”

Barber: “Are you gay?”

He says this in a loud voice, and everyone in the salon can hear him. His coworkers and the customers are now staring at us. I’m trying to get swallowed up by the leather chair.

Me: “…can we start?”

Barber: “Do you have a boyfriend? He’ll get mad you know, if you do?”

Me: “What? None of your business, and I’m not interested in dating.”

Barber: “So, you are gay! I knew it!”

The woman checking out at the register speaks up.

Woman: “GREAT! Do you want a cookie? You just outed her, and even if she wasn’t, SHUT THE F*** UP! No one here gives a crap!” *To me* “Just tell your mother the weather is too hot for long hair.”

Thank you, random stranger? You sorta outed me, too, you know.

I still get my hair cut in that salon with that barber. He still keeps asking about a boyfriend and telling me that boys don’t like girls who look gay or more boyish than them. He also likes to tell me that I look like a boy every ten to fifteen seconds. Yay.