Salons are worse than school playgrounds. Every time I go, I am ridiculed and they steal a month’s worth of lunch money. This time was no different.

Gity sat me down in the swirly chair and I took down my slashy hair. She gasped and everyone turned to look at my hair. “You used bleach,” she reprimanded while parading my hair to the onlookers. No, I actually paid in the three-digit range to have Stephen highlight it last December. He called it Irish Creme. “You shouldn’t use bleach.” Well it sure as heck wasn’t Clorox. It was like the Louis Vuitton of bleaches.

I should have escaped when she put the dye sample to my head and asked me what I thought. Instead of buying a box dye, I hired a dye slave to command at will. Then she went over to a coworker and chatted, holding the sample. Future Salon Workers of America and Beyond: DON’T DYE SOMEONE’S HAIR IF YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO IT. Again, I should have high-tailed it out of there. But she got the brush and began to glob away.

“Your ends are really damaged,” she said. Onlookers perked up again. “You should get it cut.” I told her not to bother. “I can give you a trim.” Thanks anyway, but I like my hair long. “No, it’s okay, I can fix it for you.” I glanced at Gity’s prices. $45 for color and $20 for a cut. There was no price on “fixing,” so I hoped it would be free — charity for the freak show on parade before. I might as well be a bearded lady.

As the dye seeped into my strands, a mother was jibber-jabbering about her fantastic daughter. It was Princess Fantastic’s homecoming. She didn’t want to go, but she’s on ASB. So they rushed to the mall to buy a ($200) dress, shoes and purse. She went to get her nails painted ($28 for non acrylics) and now she was getting her hair SHAMPOOED AND BLOWDRIED at the salon, while being fanned and fed exotic grapes. Apparently 15-year-old girls can’t paint their nails and wash their hair anymore.

So back in my seat, Gity pulls out Hairstyle magazine. “Which one do you want?” I just want a trim. Oh gosh, I’ve been brainwashed. I don’t want my hair cut! “I was thinking three inches off, with long layers.” I tell her just a trim. “Okay, I’ll just trim it.” And with that, she cuts off three inches of hair. I’m screaming obscenities in my head at this point, all while maintaining a smile. Then she cuts the layers and announces she’s done. Yet she kept on cutting! For the love of all that is holy — STOP WOMAN!

All this stress had made me forget about the color. I do a double-take. It must be the lighting. Yes, that’s it. “Oh, your hair is a perfect match!” Onlookers ooh and aah. Wait, was she looking at the same hair that I was, because MY HAIR ISN’T BLACK! “Oh wow, it matches your natural color! And look at the volume you’re getting! I wish I had my camera for before-and-after shots!”

I wanted to cry. I went to the salon to specifically avoid this. Now I’m paying $65 + tip for a professionally ruined hair. Sure, everyone says it looks good, but it’s not me. I don’t feel comfortable with it. I want my brown with golden and red sparkle hair back!

Gity said it would fade. I’ve washed my hair nine times in the past two days. No difference. I cancelled my senior picture appointment and vowed never to set foot in a salon as long as I live. Amen.