How Hairdressing Found Me
A Tribute to My Dad
My Dad, blowing out my perm . . .
Growing up, our family didn’t have much but we had ritual. Every Saturday morning, my dad and I would collect the change we earned from recycling soda cans all week and drive to the donut shop. That was our splurge. I always went for the one with rainbow sprinkles.
Those drives were more than sweet treats. They were small pockets of time where my dad asked big questions. Sometimes they were funny or unexpected (like whether kissing a boy had any actual benefit), but often they were quietly philosophical.
One morning, donut in hand, we were walking through our neighborhood when he turned to me and asked, “What do you want to do with your life?”
I didn’t know. I was young. That question felt too big. But he didn’t let up. He told me to listen to my heart, to pay attention to what made me light up inside.
“I like helping people,” I said. “And I love being creative.”
He smiled. “That’s a good start. Follow where that leads you.”
That conversation stuck with me.
Later, I told my mom about it. She paused and said, “You’ve always loved doing hair... ever since you were little.” She reminded me how I used to beg to brush and braid my sister’s hair, and how she herself had done hair for all five of us growing up. I admired her so much for doing that. I had only been to a salon once in my life, but when I thought about it, the idea of getting to play with hair all day lit me up.
That memory sparked something. Hair could be my bridge between creativity and helping people. It might not be the final destination, but it felt like a solid first step. So I worked for it. I took a second job, waiting tables at IHOP for the early morning shifts and hosting at the nicest restaurant in town for the evening shifts. I saved for beauty school and for my first car, a white Geo Metro. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
I got into school, made it to orientation, and was ready to begin when my car broke down. I didn’t have the money to fix it and pay tuition. I was devastated.
I went to the school and told my teacher I’d have to postpone. She asked me what had drawn me to go to beauty school in the first place. I told her the story about my dad and how this felt like a way to follow the things I loved creativity and helping others. She paused for a moment, then said, “What if we break your tuition into monthly payments?”
I cried. I said that would be amazing.
It was like the universe was whispering, This is the way. Keep going.
I didn’t know then if hair would be my forever calling, but I knew it was my next right thing. And then came the day I knew.
Our school was hosting a makeover day for women from a local shelter. We were each assigned someone to prep for an upcoming job interview.
My guest had thick, wiry, black hair and eyes that never left the floor. When she sat in my chair, she turned away from the mirror. I didn’t want her to feel unseen, so I gently turned her chair around and sat eye-level on a stool.
I asked, “When’s the last time you loved your hair?”
She didn’t answer at first, but then pulled a photo from her wallet. It was a younger version of her, maybe a teenager. She said she liked her hair in that picture.
I smiled. “Let’s start there.”
As I worked, the air between us softened. She began to relax. We weren’t just hairstylist and client anymore. We were two women, sharing a quiet kind of hope.
When I finished, I didn’t spin her around right away. I looked into her eyes and said, “You’re beautiful. No one can take that from you. Remember that.”
Then I turned the chair.
What happened next lives in my bones.
She looked at herself. At first, silence. Then, recognition. Light. Joy. A tear rolled down her cheek. She hadn’t seen herself in a long time. But I had. From the beginning.
That moment became my anchor.
It’s what I return to, even now, 25 years in, when I forget why I do this or wonder if it still matters.
Because beauty isn’t vanity. It’s remembering. It’s returning. It’s being reminded of who you are when the world has made you forget.
That day, I knew: This is it. This is what I’m meant to do.
