Have you ever wondered what it’s like behind the scenes at your fancy salon? I’m here to tell you it’s not pretty. I’ve been a hairdresser for over ten years at some of the most high-end salons in the world…and what I’ve seen is often shocking. From sexual harassment to physical assault to rampant employee abuse and exploitation. It’s all happening behind the scenes while you’re blissfully relaxing in the chair and sipping your latte. All stories are true. Names and timelines have been changed and shifted slightly to protect the very guilty.

“Do you know what a muffin top is? Because you totally have one.” Richie says.

He pauses briefly to apply his lipgloss. “Girl—you know you’re too fat for those pants. They’re, like, begging for mercy.”

“Wow, Richie—thanks.” I yawn. I’m not about to get worked up about comments on my wardrobe from a Lilliputian man in red skintight leather pants and matching suspenders.

It’s 9 AM on a Saturday, my ten-hour workday has yet to begin, and I’m exhausted in advance. I’ve got fourteen clients on the book today. Let’s do the math:

• Eight regulars. (Fairly low drama, praise God.)
• Four new clients. (Scary—who knows what fresh hell they may bring?)
• Two total nut bags that I’m praying will:

1. Be on time, please! Not waltzing in forty-five minutes late again with a fresh iced Starbucks in your hand or I will cut YOU, not your hair.

2. Be back in therapy. (It’s not that I mind hearing about your divorce or your husband’s affair— I just don’t like having to hear about how his erectile disfunction kept you from experiencing satisfying penetration for the last five years. We don’t know each other THAT well, friend!)

“I’ve never met a Jewish woman that wasn’t at least chunky.” Richie continues. Man, Richie is talkative this morning! Which is surprising since he showed up five minutes before his first client, still drunk from the night before and wearing the same clothes from yesterday.

Richie always smells like sweat, sex and—it took me a while to put my finger on it—vomit. But just slightly. I attribute some of it to the fact that he doesn’t believe in wearing underpants.

“Fuck you, f****t. Leave her alone.” This comes from Daniel. Daniel is completely bald, well into his forties, originally from Morocco and militantly heterosexual … perhaps suspiciously heterosexual. You work at a hair salon, dude. If working around gay guys freaks you out so badly, what are you doing here? He loves me for reasons I have yet to figure out and is always trying to “defend my honor.” I do not return the love. He’s like my horrible, perverted uncle.

“Yes, Richie’s a dick, but we don’t have to bring any slurs into it. That’s not cool.” I say. I try to keep it classy down here in the staff room. If you’re not on your toes it will turn ugly down here real quick.

“You defend everybody!” Daniel scoffs. “You’re like that country that never fights with nobody— Finland. I won’t let nobody insult you. I only ever had good thoughts about a Jewish woman’s body. You all got those big titties I could suck on all night! He should be so lucky!”

Richie throws Daniel a hostile glare.

“Not interested, honey.”

The intercom buzzes. Clients are here. Time to start the day. I tromp up the stairs while I practice smiling. Got to get your face ready for a day of smiling. Because in a salon like this you’re on All Day. The clients expect you to be unendingly polite, gracious, and above all, Happy!! They’re paying a fortune for their hair and they want good service. Or their version of whatever that means. So no matter what else is going on in your life, part of your job here is to Entertain. Which can get difficult, because here it’s definitely taken to the next level. We work in the fanciest salon in the ritziest part of the city. Our clients tend to be rich. Mega rich. Oh-My-God-is-that-a-ten-carat-diamond-ring-and-can-I-try-it-on?! (Nope!) Rich.

Sometimes what they expect you to deliver is a little, well, unrealistic.

Like the heiress last week who wanted me to take her golden hair dark brown. (She was rebelling. Her family’s so Blue Blood they make Thurston Howell look like Woody Allen.) I begged her not to. “You’re going to hate it! And then hate me. I’m not doing it.” She swore up and down that she really wanted to get in touch with her Dark Side. Who was I to tell her what to do?! She was indignant. So I did it….

“I hate it!” She sobbed. “How could you do this to me?! Take me back to blonde! Now!” So guess who was here until 10 PM three nights last week, stripping the color? Yup. And I had to do it sloooowly. Because if I left that bitch bald-headed, I’m pretty sure she would have found an untraceable way to have me killed.

It’s not all bad, though. My favorite client is a high-class escort who has the most gorgeous hair I’ve ever seen and alway tips me with a hundred-dollar bill. And she’s super nice and really zen. I can totally see how she makes the big bucks. And I keep her as far away from Daniel as possible. Every time she comes in he runs down to the staff room and jokes “the beautiful hooker is here again, eh? I should ask her how much she charges.” And he chuckles in a way that makes me want to punch him in the face.

My least-favorite client is Patrick, a super-arrogant motivational speaker. His whole schtick is “honesty in the business world” and…I wonder how he would feel if it got out to his corporate clients that I dye his hair AND mustache jet black every two weeks!

The last time he was here, I was in the middle of painting color into his mustache (let’s just say it’s awkward for everybody involved) when he suddenly looked up at me, grabbed me abruptly by the wrist, and whispered, “I can tell by the sadness in your eyes that you’re not where you want to be in life. This is what I do. I’m very good at this. I’m going to get you through this. Tell me—what’s holding you back?”

Yikes, creepy much? I smile and look deeply into his eyes.

“Herpes,” I say.

Because even a true professional like myself can only take so much.