I walked into the barbershop with a plan: to finally get a fringe that would frame my face like those effortlessly chic influencers. I had no idea that my stubborn insistence would lead to a hairstyling disaster.
I ignored the barber's professional advice. He warned me that my hair texture wouldn't hold that style, that the fringe would require daily maintenance, and that the cut I wanted was better suited for thicker strands. But I was determined. I bullied him into taking the scissors to my fringe.
The moment he finished, I knew it was a terrible mistake. The fringe sat awkwardly across my forehead, too short in some places and too long in others. It didn't swoop; it flopped. It didn't frame; it obscured. I looked like a child who had gotten into the craft supplies.
Now, I'm left with weeks of awkward growing-out phase, the ever-present urge to hide behind hats, and a newfound respect for barbers who say no. The next time I get a haircut, I'll let the professional lead.
Zoe Williams is a columnist for the Guardian.