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Never Trust a Woman Named 'Cookie'

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And I will tell you why. I am sure we all have those salon or barber shop horror stories that we tell friends because we can look back and laugh about it now. However, we all know there was a time when it wasn't so funny. There's nothing like a jacked up fade or color and cut that go horribly wrong. I know because I have my own horror story (one of many). The good news is I lived to tell it.

It was circa 1995 and I had just moved to the other side of the country. I was new in town and didn't know a soul, let alone a good stylist. My hair was in dire need of a trim and color. I was a walking kaleidoscope with brown hair with cinnamon, auburn, and plum highlights as a result of long days under the sun. I needed someone desperately. What did I do? I got out the phone book (I wasn't on the WWW, so no I didn't go online). I flipped to a shop just ten minutes away. I immediately picked up the phone and discovered they could fit me in. I was surprised considering it was a Saturday afternoon. That was clue number one. When I arrived, I immediately thought of a hair academy. Wigs sat on mannequins and tracks were laid out everywhere: on chairs, tables and some even on the floor. That should have been clue number two. The whole place seemed cold and only one lonely soul was in the back getting her hair done. That was clue number three. I walked further into the salon and was greeted by a glowing, friendly woman named, yes, you guessed it, Cookie. She had two-inch long acrylics airbrushed orange, purple and black. She was wearing a black spandex cat suit that was screaming for dear life and I tried to ignore her hairstyle in hopes someone had done that to her and that she didn't purposely add twelve packs of weave to her scalp with orange highlights to match her nails. I know all these signs would have you running from the building but I stayed which should show you how desperate I was.

I accepted her invitation to sit in her chair (the ultimate commitment so there was no turning back) and proceeded to tell her what I wanted. I was there for a trim, a soft black to cover up the damage from the sun and some spiral curls for body. My hair was two inches past my shoulders so I had a nice picture of Hillary Banks' curly do ('Fresh Prince of Bel Air') in my head. The next hour is a blur. Maybe I blocked it out because it's just too horrible to think about. All I know is that after she applied the color, trimmed and curled it she pulled out a towel and began rubbing my forehead. I didn't say anything at first, but then she started rubbing harder, leaving a rash on my head. I finally spoke up and asked her, "Is there a problem?" "Well," she began. "You've got color on your forehead and I ain't got no color remover." I turned the chair around to look in the mirror and she was right. There was black color all over my forehead from her sloppy application but it was also on my ears, neck and smeared on my white shirt. I started shaking my head not believing it could get any worse but then I looked at what she had done. My hair wasn't just black it was blue! She had cut almost three inches off and what was left was curled tightly up to my ears. I wasn't Hillary Banks. I was Shirley Temple -- with blue hair. While I stared in disbelief at my reflection in the mirror, Cookie tried to convince me that it wasn't 'that bad.' I begged to differ. Needless to say, I left the salon that day and vowed never to return again and never to trust a woman named 'Cookie.'

Do you have a hair horror story to share? Tell me in the comment section.

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