I Tried to Break up with My Hairdresser and Now I'm Hiding in a Different Zip Code Every Six Weeks

I thought ending things with my hairdresser would be simple, just a quiet switch, no drama. Instead, it turned into a full-blown escape plan involving hats, fake names, and emotional damage control.

I've had the same hairdresser for eight years. Her name is Lina, and she's been giving me the same haircut since Obama's second term. I had resigned myself to this fate when Lina started doing something quite unexpected that put me out of my comfort zone.

See, for years, my hairdresser would cut my hair into medium-length layers, with vague face-framing, and a blowout that lasted roughly as long as my motivation to socialize. The look was fine, Lina was fine, and the whole thing was aggressively fine.

I didn't stick with her out of loyalty or love; I just didn't know how to leave. There never seemed to be a clean way to say, "Hey, I think I want to pay someone else to touch my scalp now." Breaking up with a romantic partner is somehow less complicated. At least then you're allowed to cry and block them on Instagram.

Hairdressers? I learned quite late that they are a different breed.

Every time I reluctantly went over to do my hair, I left the salon looking vaguely refreshed and slightly windburned. Like someone had walked me briskly through a car wash with good intentions. But breaking up with my hairdresser was an advanced form of confrontation, and I am the human version of a "maybe later" button.

You need to understand Lina, she's... intense. Not in a mean way, though. She's just the kind of person who narrates every snip like she's hosting a makeover show no one else can hear.

She calls me and others "babe." My hairdresser also tells me I have "rich undertones," which I'm pretty sure is her way of saying my hair is black and will always be black, no matter how many reference photos I bring in.

I kept going to her because it was easier than explaining why I didn't want to anymore. Because saying, "This isn't working for me," feels dramatic when you're talking about split ends. And also because I live in a city where running into people you're avoiding is basically a civic pastime.

But then one day, Lina got a ring light and everything changed.

My name is Camila. I'm 34, a part-time librarian, and a full-time procrastinator. I live alone, love quiet routines, and have a complicated emotional relationship with confrontation, escalators, and anyone who uses the phrase "you got this!" unironically.

I am also the type of person who prefers animals to people 80 percent of the time. The other 20 percent is reserved for polite nods and apologizing to strangers for things that aren't my fault.

Lina had recently leaned hard into social media to up her clientele. So, one day, she showed up at the salon with a ring light, a new phone tripod, and a manic sparkle in her eye.

"Babe, we're building your brand today," she said, already miking me with something that looked suspiciously like a cat toy.

From that day onward, every trim turned into a production! There were hashtags and calls to "smize?" She once told me to "give the camera 'single-income European heiress with secrets!'" I gave it digestive issues and a vague sense of guilt!

After the third post where she tagged me as #BoldCutQueen, I knew it was over. I couldn't handle the pressure or the glitter gel she kept trying to sneak into my part.

So, I did it. I booked with someone else.

Enter Olive.

Olive was a minimalist dream! Her studio had one chair, no music, and the lighting of a crime documentary interview. She asked, "What are you looking for?" and actually listened! I was in heaven! She didn't speak unless I did or only when necessary.

Olive only accepted compliments by shrugging, and once said "goodbye" so quietly I thought it was a draft! Her scissors moved with surgical precision, and when she finished, she took a single photo. I looked normal, great, even!

She asked me before posting it to her very quiet Instagram with the caption, "Clean bob for Camila."

Her approach was simple, honest, and safe. Unfortunately, she tagged me: '@CamilaReads,' which is how Lina found out.

My old hairdresser's comment came at 2:04 a.m., like a digital whisper in the night, "Interesting choice... :)"

My stomach dropped like I'd cheated on a clingy vampire.

But Lina wasn't done with me yet, because the next week, she showed up at the library.

I was at the circulation desk, wearing a hat that I did not need, to hide the great work Olive did so as to not attract attention or questions. But Lina still appeared in the nonfiction aisle holding a copy of "The Art of Letting Go." Y'all see where she was going with that, right? We made eye contact, she smiled, I did not.

The real me was quietly panicking in the chair, clutching my knees like I was about to be catapulted out of a medieval fortress. She didn't check out the book but placed it gently on the counter and ominously said, "For when you're ready."

I was sweating bullets!

That same afternoon, Susan, the building's retired science teacher and part-time gossip baron, cornered me by the mailboxes. She's a woman with strong opinions about everyone's recycling habits, and I usually avoid her by timing my trash runs.

"Lina's running a new promo, sweetie," she said, grinning, giving away that she knew more than she was letting on. "It's called 'Fix Your Friend's Mistakes.' You're not named, but your before photo is up on the wall. It kind of looks like you fell asleep in a wind tunnel."

I was shocked, especially since this information was coming from a woman who once claimed her sourdough starter became sentient! Lina was clearly being passive-aggressive about my leaving her so abruptly.

The next few days were the same; I kept running into Lina at random places I frequented, and every time, she either said something cryptic or held something suspicious concerning me leaving her as a client.

One day, Tony, my nice neighbor who smells like hops and always carries a mason jar of something fermenting, brought the tension between me and Lina up in the elevator. This was quite strange for someone whom I barely knew but saw constantly.

"You good?" he asked. "I don't mean to pry, but Lina told me to tell you that she posted something about 'loyalty cuts.' I don't know what that means, but she threatened to post something negative about my IPA, so I am just passing on the message, okay?"

Did I mention that I lived in a close-knit neighborhood where everyone knew everyone's business, and the city is equally small?

"Look, you need to take the bull by the horns, Camila. Just like my IPA, be bold!"

I thanked Tony for the information and unsolicited advice and decided to do something I never did... take action.

I tried to confront Lina. I swear I did.

I marched into her salon, ready to say something firm and respectful like, "Hey, I think we need to talk about boundaries."

I got as far as "Hey, can we talk—"

Lina clapped her hands and said, "Sweetheart! Bang trim, on the house. I missed your face! You know your hair is a journey, babe!"

Reader, I am ashamed to say this, but I sat down.

Of course, that haircut also turned into an involuntary content shoot. I smiled awkwardly while being told to "give eyebrow" and "look like you just inherited a villa in the south of France."

Oh, I also saw my promo picture with the unflattering angle and questionable lighting.

I kicked myself all the way home for not having thought my plan through, but vowed never to return again.

I also did not go back to Olive. The guilt was too strong. I imagined her seeing Lina's comment and sighing deeply into her minimalist succulent. I also pictured Lina confronting my quiet, sweet Olive, and forcing her to ban me.

So I began my pilgrimage.

Every six weeks, a new salon, a new zip code, and a new alias.

I've been Francesca, Noelle, Petra, and once, in a moment of pure panic, Janelle Monet! Not the Janelle Monáe. Just a typo I couldn't fix in time.

I started rating salons in a spreadsheet:

Eye Contact Duration: One (blissfully brief) to five (stared into my soul)

Chat Pressure: One (silent heaven) to five (asked if I wanted kids before washing my hair)

Hashtag Risk: One (no cameras in sight) to five (full ring light with motivational music)

My hair became a slowly shifting collage of cuts that almost matched. Like a visual whisper that something was... off, but not bad. Just... mysterious. Like I had a secret or multiple stylists.

Susan stopped me in the lobby one afternoon, holding a bag of compost and a flyer for a sound bath.

"Your energy's different," she said. "Sharper. Have you been stress-cutting?"

I nodded, still wearing my trusted hat. It was easier than explaining that I had become a haircut fugitive.

"Well, it isn't working for you. Plus, I heard from my Pilates instructor that Lina now refers to you as 'The Vanishing Client.'"

Technically, I was more well-groomed than ever, but honestly, I was also very, very tired from jumping from one hairdresser to the next.

Then one Saturday, I bumped into Tony again, and unfortunately—or fortunately, in this case—he was chatty. He told me about Lina's pivot during what I thought would be a silent elevator ride. I was holding a sad bunch of kale and a bottle of oat milk.

He was carrying what looked like a homemade brewing apparatus that burbled ominously every few seconds. I made a mental note to start checking the coast before going into the elevator.

"She's doing scalp work now," Tony said, as if it were something you'd casually hear from a street prophet.

I blinked. "What? Scalp work?"

"Yeah. Like, healing with crystals. She calls it... wait..." He paused, pulled out his phone, and scrolled with the urgency of someone fact-checking a hallucination. "Here—'Hair Chakra Alignment and Root Ascension.'"

I made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sneeze!

"She says she's 'not cutting hair anymore, she's cutting energy blocks,'" Tony added, in a tone that suggested he wasn't totally opposed to the concept.

"She's chanting into people's follicles now?"

"Which lyric?"

He shrugged. "Something about 'upgrades.'"

I sighed and adjusted my hat, which had become both a disguise and a security blanket as I hid it. I kept pretending to grow out my hair whenever someone asked about the hat, just to avoid revealing my secret salon rendezvous.

Tony leaned slightly closer.

"Oh, and she told me that she's doing pop-ups now if you'd like to join."

"Pop-ups?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah, like, she just shows up outside yoga studios with a collapsible chair and a velvet pouch full of stones. Susan got a card. There's glitter and a QR code that makes your phone vibrate."

I stared at him. "Vibrate?"

He nodded. "She calls it the 'Root Wake-Up.' Very limited availability."

"Thanks for the update, Tony. Enjoy whatever you're making today," I said as I waved and got off the elevator on my floor, shaking my head as I went.

Since Lina seemed to have stopped obsessing over me and found a new direction for her work, I figured it was safe to return to the stylist I actually liked. So, the following day, I visited Olive's salon using my real name.

But this time, I explicitly asked her not to post anything about me. I was done with social media and the drama. Whether she knew about the beef with Lina is anyone's guess because Olive never mentioned the past.

Instead, we just talk about the weather and almond milk shortages. For the first time in months, I could finally breathe. But I still wear hats indoors, and now it's more of an aesthetic.

If this story resonated with you, here's another one: When a woman gave a homeless man a makeover, she didn't expect to find herself searching for him for a year. The meeting with the homeless man would later offer her more than she'd anticipated.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.