By Sam Gruetter

Opinion Editor

A few weeks ago, LGHS hosted junior prom in the small gym. For prom, there are certain things girls must do to prepare, including their hair. Whether it is an updo, curled, or a blowout, girls must tame their luscious locks into conformity for the three-hour duration of pre-prom photos and the dance itself. Having naturally wavy hair, I am a part of the demographic that must take intense time and care with their hair to achieve the desired result; therefore, I turned to a certain local blowout spot, alongside the rest of the junior class, (unbeknownst to me) to get my hair done for prom… or so I hoped. 

I was immediately on edge when I walked into this unnamed salon (I will give you a hint; its name isn’t Wet Table). The fluorescent lights and bright yellow hot tools did nothing to calm my nerves and, in hindsight, foreshadowed the destruction that was soon to transpire atop my precious head. I requested a simple blowout, a service that should be as straightforward as picking up a latte at one’s local coffee shop. However, I would have rather had the barista do my hair with the espresso machine than this salon. The stylist began by washing my hair, where I was repeatedly waterboarded with the nozzle. I don’t know if she took inspiration from the recent USC ice bucket challenge, but my intentions were not to be drowned in water for five minutes straight. However, I think if I filmed my washing process and hitched on a nomination or two, it would have qualified for the challenge. I was then taken to the chair, where not a lick of heat protectant was applied to my hair. I love the sensation of my hair follicles being fried off one by one as much as the next guy, but my hair visibly producing smoke caused me some concern. Did you want a blowout with that arson attempt?

By the end of the service, I think I possessed about half the hair and a quarter of the integrity I walked into that salon with. I left the rest in the round brush that had cosmetically assaulted my scalp for 60 minutes. I wish I could say I left with my tail between my legs, but they fried that off, too, so I just cried to my mom on the phone while simultaneously researching DIY hair plugs (I’m pretty sure I am on several FBI watch lists now). 

However, I am not the only victim of this salon, as many other girls have had similar experiences. From braid crowns that looked more like braid fedoras to butchered updos, none of us was head over heels in love with our hair. In fact, half of us looked like we just fell head over heels into a six-car pile-up and immediately went to prom.