Spooky season serves ghostly tales and haunting legends much to our equal delight and dismay. Sometimes one must pause to ponder, "Am I the ghost? No, I don't think so. But maybe?"
To set the scene, I'd been going to my hair-stylist (hereafter known as X) for about six years. X did excellent color. X created beautiful balayage on my hair ranging from Malibu Barbie pink highlights, to golden honey gloss, to warm caramel ribbons. I left happy with the color 95% the time. There was the one time, I asked for pink gloss, and left with magenta, but the color soon faded to a more pleasing shade. X also gave good haircuts, but color was X's main area of expertise.
When I first started going to X, X was going through a breakup. X gossiped about their ex-romantic-partner, which wouldn't have been a big deal, except X's ex worked in the same salon, and got to hear it all firsthand from the other side of the row of mirrors. Scary! Imagine having a front row seat to your ex-partner complaining about you. Imagine also that you have sharp scissors and extremely hot styling tools at the ready. Even more scary! X's ex-partner quickly found a job at another salon.
Fast forward a few months, and X started dating one of the owners of the salon. Wow! X did not learn that lesson about how messy it can be to date a coworker, and leveled up to dating the boss. I also started to notice that if X didn't like someone at that salon, the other person didn't stay working there for very long. I know that correlation does not equal causation, but the common factor in swift departures from the salon seemed to be X.
Approximately three years into my six year relationship with X, X was still dating the salon owner/boss, and bemoaned some of the difficulties of dating a "much older" person. X talked about the age gap, and how awful it was to be from a different generation with different priorities and perspectives. I stayed silent in my knowledge that I was the same age as X's romantic partner/boss. I let X unwittingly dig that proverbial grave deeper and deeper.
X rarely remembered anything about me, often confusing me with other clients. That's fine. People you pay for services are not your friends. People you pay for services do not owe you emotional support. That said, I low-key did not appreciate some of X's very stereotyped observations of my age. X, read the room! Also, X's romantic partner/boss was often in the salon to hear it all. Not to mention all of their shared coworkers at the salon hearing the selfishly tepid and tedious relationship gossip.
Over the course of the time I went to X, the cost kept rising, much faster than inflation rates. The bill for services rendered leapt from: expensive and worth it, to downright offensive, to more than some people's monthly mortgage.
Fast forward again to about a year ago, I got a ghastly haircut from X that I did not want. I asked for long, loose layers, and left with choppy, thick curtain bangs which were just shy of a lady mullet. X kept saying "curtain bangs" while I repeated "long, loose layers." The haircut wasn't horrific, but it wasn't what I wanted. At all. I knew the hairstyle wasn't ideal when the salon receptionist exclaimed with wide eyes, "Oh! You got bangs! Um, wow."
Reminder: X did excellent color. So I returned a few months later for a trim and a color refresh. X told me that their cosmetology license was expiring soon. X then proceeded to paint my highlights, and look at the phone to take the cosmetology license renewal exam. Yes, you read that right: X highlighted my hair while simultaneously taking an online exam. At one point, X loudly exclaimed, "Oh no!" Startled, I asked what was wrong. "I let a video run while I was painting your hair. The next exam question is what was the video about? I'm going to have to rewatch it. You need to sit for fifteen minutes while your hair processes, anyway." I don't think that X was actually finished with my highlights, but X walked off muttering about the video.
After my hair color was complete to X's distracted estimation, X asked what I wanted for my haircut. I told X that I wanted a trim on the ends, but to please not trim my bangs. I did not say aloud that I desperately wanted to grow out the bangs, but I did think it. X looked at my hair with unmasked disdain, then said, "Don't ever cut your own bangs. If you're having trouble styling your hair, come to me. I can show you some styling tips, or reshape your layers." Then X shook their head and sighed.
That was the moment that killed our six year relationship. Our relationship died not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with silence. I ignored reminder text messages to set my next appointment. I unfollowed on social media. I unsubscribed from emails. I ghosted X.
Over a year later, the choppy, thick curtain bangs continue to haunt me, as I grow them out. Do not mourn for me. I've moved on to a better place. I doubt that X even remembers me.
