I've never left a salon feeling so lousy about the cut I got there. The "It's All About You" salon was entirely empty when I opened the still padlocked door at three in the afternoon. After consulting the blank appointment book and surveying the empty salon, the "receptionist" directed me to a chair and asked what I wanted. When I started to explain, he went in the back room. Max, who may be the only stylist in the salon, eventually emerged from the back room. He never asked what I wanted. He didn't wet or even comb through my hair. I had long hair. Without telling me that he hates long hair on men, Max started around the face, bangs and sides. Fine. When he got to the back, he said, "Shoulder length, I think, and layered." But his first cut was just below the ear. Another customer came in, from "City Models" he announced. Chop, chop. I was done. I was left with hair the length of the Beatles in 1965, a short, choppy bob. My hair was cut to mid-neck and wasn't smoothly layered. I wanted to cry.
I paid my bill and asked for siccors to trim the long stands Max had missed. They wouldn't give me siccors to repair the sloppy mess, but Max stepped away from his City Model long enough to trim off a few stray strands. It's not "All About You," it's all about Max, a self-absorbed little stylist who doesn't listen to his clients.
Repeatedly cooing, "Oooooh, it looks much more masculine,' Max never apologized for hacking my hair off much shorted than I wanted. I told him I had not asked to be made more masculine in his eyes. Sheesh! Max left me with such a bad look I am embarrassed to leave the house and it will take a year to grow out my hair again to a length that doesn't look silly.