Hair Salon Nightmares: Results
Woozens,
We asked you to spill the tea on your worst hair salon disaster, and you delivered.
From accidental mullets to surprise shades of green, we read every cringey, hilarious, and downright shocking story you shared. Who knew so many of you had been through such hairy situations?
We were supposed to announce the winners yesterday (oops!), but a little delay never stopped a good story, right?
At first, we asked for stories up to 500 words, but we ran into a hiccup, our poll didn't allow more than 500 characters, not words.
We adjusted the rules along the way and made sure to still include Woozens who submitted longer entries.
Everyone deserved a fair shot, and we didn't want to cut any great story short!
Thanks for your patience while we untangled all the entries and selected our top 5!
Now, without further ado, let's give a round of applause to the 5 Woozens who turned their salon nightmares into winning moments!
I once went to a salon to bleach my black hair so that I could color my hair into an brown and baby pink ombre.
The hairdresser told me that this request is very easy as they're used to do the bleaching procedure.
My hair is thoroughly washed with shampoo and conditioner, then they start to apply the bleaching agent.
As I was waiting for my hair to turn color. I notice that my scalp starts to itch, the skin around my forehead and ears turn into tomato red.
I waited for another 5 minute, and the pain wouldn't go away. So I called the hairdresser to ask them to check on my hair
As they open the wrapping, my hair was pulled for a bit and a huge amount of hair strands was detached from my head. I panicked, they panicked, we all did.
It turns out I was allergic to peroxide. I went to the hospital to get treated, which leads me to stay in the hospital for 2 days.
At the end, I spent the whole summer with a platinum ash bixie (Bob and Pixie) hair, with a 200 dollar voucher from the salon as an apology gift.
My hair disaster was a true classic of the genre.
The kind that is then retold with sighs and a wry smile. "Just trust the process," they told me.
Like, hair is not teeth, it will grow back, don't worry.
I wanted to believe, really. But, as it turned out, it was impossible to trust, ewww.
It all started on a very ordinary day during school.
I was in a hurry, tired and annoyed, and I urgently needed to shorten my hair a little.
They got in my eyes, got tangled, clung to my collar, and drove me crazy.
My usual hairdresser, whom I had been going to for years, was busy. In desperation, I decided not to delay and went to the nearest salon, which was on the way.
They washed my hair, which is always a little pleasant, sat me down in front of the mirror, put a cape over my shoulders - and at that moment I was waiting for someone, at least someone, to ask: "How do you want to get your haircut?"
But no. Without a single clarifying question, without discussing the length, shape or my wishes, the master just picked up the scissors and started cutting.
Just... started. As if she already knew what she was doing.
Huge wisps of hair fell to the floor, and my face, reflected in the mirror, was losing all signs of life.
From a neutral expression, it has become the epitome of hopelessness.
I could feel my identity slipping away, strand by strand, layer by layer.
It even seemed to me that time had stopped - I felt so ridiculous, hahaha.
I never returned to that salon, i mean NEVER.
This story is so etched in my memory that it was she who pushed me to make the decision to become a hairdresser, and i did.
So that no one would ever feel the way I felt then.
So the moral of this story is super simple: please always ask about the wishes of the person when you do any custom work.
It doesn't matter what it is: the taste of the cake, the length of the hairstyle, the colors of the painting - communicating is the key!
The Spiky Hair Disaster
When I was 14, I decided I wanted to switch up my hairstyle. I had rocked the same boring haircut since elementary school, & I was tired of it.
I wanted something cool.
Something bold. Something that said, "Yeah, I play video games AND have great hair."
I walked into the salon with one goal: spiky hair.
You know, the kind where the front sticks up a little, not like a porcupine just casual cool.
I even showed the stylist a photo of a teen model with the perfect spiky look. I said, "Like this, but not too short."
He smiled & said, "No problem!"
It was a problem.
As soon as he turned me toward the mirror at the end, I knew something had gone terribly wrong.
My bangs were completely gone. He had buzzed the sides down to almost nothing. The top of my head? A spiky, crispy, over-gelled nightmare.
I didn't look like the model. I looked like a hedgehog who got into a fight with a hairdryer & lost.
Worse, He handed me a mirror to show the back and there it was: a lightning bolt shaved into the side of my head.
He said, "I thought it looked cool!"
I blinked. I wanted to say that "I look like a rebooted version of Sonic the Hedgehog."
But instead, I kept my cool & said. "Thanks!" I paid him & left immediately.
I went home, avoiding all reflective surfaces on the way. My mom nearly dropped her phone when she saw me.
"Son, why is your hair crunchy?"
I ran to the bathroom, tried washing out the gel, but it just made it fluffier.
My hair puffed up like I'd been electrocuted.
My sisters laughed so hard they fell off the couch.
The next day at school was even worse.
I walked in, & someone yelled, "Yo, Sonic the Hedgehog just pulled up!"
Another kid made zapping noises every time I walked by, thanks to the lightning bolt.
But instead of hiding, I decided to own it.
Eventually my hair grew back & I always advise people to be specific with their haircut, cause you never know when a barber is one snip away from turning you into an electric rodent.
My Hair Salon Horror Story:
It started innocently: I just wanted curtain bangs. I'd scrolled through Pinterest, saved dozens of reference photos, and walked into the salon with hope in my heart.
I showed the stylist a clear photo of a soft, face-framing style.
She nodded confidently. I should've known something was off when she grabbed clippers.
CLIPPERS.
For curtain bangs.
Before I could protest, a loud bzzzz filled the air, and a huge chunk of hair fell in front of my eyes.
I froze. She smiled and said, "Oops! Don't worry, we'll make it work."
Spoiler alert: it did not work.
What was meant to be light, wispy bangs ended up looking like I had lost a dare.
One side was way shorter than the other, and there was a weird gap in the middle, like the hair had stage fright and didn't want to show up.
I looked like a coconut head. Trying to stay calm, I nodded through the rest of the appointment, paid, and walked out like a stunned squirrel.
I wore a hoodie for a week, even indoors.
My friends tried to be nice ("It's edgy!"), but my reflection said otherwise.
Eventually, I embraced the chaos. I started parting my bangs sideways and experimented with clips.
Moral of the story? If your stylist reaches for clippers when you ask for bangs run.
The world of hair salons can be a minefield of expectations and outcomes. One particularly memorable appointment left me with a hairstyle that was the stuff of nightmares.
It started innocently enough. I had a simple request: a trim and some subtle highlights to brighten my look.
I chose a salon based on online reviews and a friend's recommendation, feeling confident in my decision.
The stylist seemed competent, asking all the right questions and nodding attentively as I described my vision.
The appointment began smoothly. The stylist expertly trimmed my hair, and I felt a sense of relief.
Then came the highlights. The stylist carefully applied the bleach, and I settled in, anticipating the transformation.
However, as time passed, I started to feel a sense of unease. The bleach seemed to be on for an extended period, and I noticed a strange smell emanating from my hair.
When the stylist finally rinsed the bleach, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my heart sank.
Instead of subtle highlights, I was staring at a head full of bright, almost neon, streaks.
The color was far from the natural look I desired.
I tried to remain calm as the stylist began styling my hair, hoping the final result would somehow redeem the situation.
But as she blow-dried my hair, the full extent of the disaster became clear.
The highlights were not only the wrong color but also uneven and patchy.
My hair felt dry and damaged, and the overall effect was far from flattering.
I left the salon feeling mortified and self-conscious.
For weeks, I tried to hide my hair, experimenting with different styling techniques and products to try and salvage the situation.
I consulted with other stylists, who confirmed the damage and advised me on how to repair it.
The experience taught me a valuable lesson about the importance of clear communication, thorough research, and the willingness to speak up if something goes wrong according to plan
Each of them will receive:
An exclusive title
1,000 Wooz
20,000 Beex
1 Quest Token
Thanks to everyone who participated.
You made us laugh, wince, and appreciate our barbers just a little more.
Until next time... brush off the drama and keep rocking your crown!
WoozStaff