When I was 17, I was an usher at my older sister’s wedding. My parents wanted me to look neat, so they asked me to get a haircut. I went to a salon, expecting nothing more than a simple trim.
While cutting my hair, the stylist made small talk and asked about my weekend plans. I told her I was attending my sister’s wedding. Suddenly, a large chunk of hair fell into my lap as she calmly said, “I was supposed to get married this weekend.”
I immediately sat still and let her finish. I had spent a long time growing my hair out, but she ended up cutting more than six inches off and left it so short that it wouldn’t even lie flat.
I never complained or asked what had happened. But after that experience, I have never felt comfortable making small talk with a hairdresser again.
