By: Inbar Levona

In the month of May 2010, I decided it was about time to get my hair professionally cut and styled, after having done it myself for a year. Seeing all those ads for the salon called “The House of Lords” on the TTC, I decided to give it a shot. I’ll have you know that I do my research before purchasing things, whether it’s acrylic paint, or a haircut. There were very mixed reviews of the place, but someone listed the names of some good hairdressers who worked there, so I took the liberty of writing them down. On that same sheet of paper, I printed out a picture of what I wanted my hair to look like. The following day, my friend and I ventured down to Bloor and Yonge – where it’s located – and sat down on one of their uniquely upholstered couches. Shortly after, I was greeted by a very dramatic man named Mike. He sat me down in his chair, commented on the poor shape of my hair, washed it, and said my desired haircut was do-able. As he began trimming it, he saw the sheet of paper with the names of the recommended hair dressers and the hair cut I wanted. Sauntering over to it, he fished the pen out of his shirt pocket, bent over my shoulder, and gingerly tapped the paper. I could smell the cigarette smoke lingering on his shirt. “Who’s this?” he asked in the most flamboyant tone of voice you could ever imagine. He was severely offended. “Oh, nothing special, I just looked up some names of recommended hair dressers and stuff…” I responded meekly. For your own personal well-being, I’d like you all to remember to never ever show your weak side. Ever.

“Ah” he said, “I see.” He clicked his pen open. Holding the pen by its top, he awkwardly circled one of the names I had written down. “She doesn’t work here anymore. And you spelled her name wrong.” He fixed my spelling error. “Sorry,” I replied. I could see the flames of anger and envy ignite in his blue eyes. He took one look at my hair and said, “Look, your hair doesn’t suit this haircut,” which was complete bulls**t, by the way. With a sigh, he continued, “but I’ll try anyway.” He brushed all of my hair forward, trimmed it, shaved the hair nearing my neck down to a gradual buzz cut, and, making sure the sides were uneven, styled it. He took a large amount of hair wax, ran it through my hair, and stuck my head under the hair dryer. Then, he revealed his masterpiece. It was the ugliest haircut I had ever gotten in my life, and I’ve had some pretty terrible ones. I was looking at frizzy Betty Boop ringlets plastered to my forehead. There was a glint of satisfaction in that false smile of his. I thanked him and with a horrified facial expression, rigidly walked over to my friend, who had an equally horrified expression. While finger combing the ugly mass of frizz that was my hair, I paid the cashier the twenty dollars it cost. Seeing my terrified facial expression, she kindly told me not to worry about the tip, and to leave quickly. Grabbing my stuff, my friend and I ran to the nearest Starbucks. While I ran my hair under the sink in the bathroom, she grabbed a fork and began combing out my hair. I explained my ordeal to the lady washing her hands in the adjacent sink. We had good bonding times. Upon arrival at my house, I cut my hair, and it looks