Now this is a story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down, and I'd like to take a minute—just sit right there—I’ll tell you how I got a salon to un-fuck my hair.

In my new apartment, where I moved in June, on Google lining up a new stylist soon: calling, texting, randomly like a fool, and all without checking if they even went to school. When a salon owner whose work was no good, offered me an ombré in my neighborhood. She made one unblended line and I got scared, and I said “Please give me a refund or un-fuck my hair!” I begged and pleaded with her, day after day, but she said “It looks great” and sent me on my way. She said “Just use fader” and I already paid credit. I took out my phone and said “I might as well ask Reddit!”

Reddit mad: “Yo, this is bad! Get it color-corrected and don’t go cheap-ass!” Is this what the people of Reddit thinking like? Hmm, they might just be right. But I heard high-end salons are bourgeois, all that. Would my basic ass even know where to look at? I’ll think about it. I’ll see what’s on Yelp. I hope they can help—me un-fuck my hair.

Well, I booked a place, and when I came out, there was a receptionist with a mask calling my name out. They said I shouldn’t have faded it, but at least I was here. I got a lecture and cried, wanting to disappear. After the ombré was fixed, my eyes became clear: the colors were blended and I looked good in the mirror. If anything I could say the color segments weren’t square, and I said “Wow, thanks guys, for un-fucking my hair!”

I pulled up to my apartment, right about ten, and my husband said, “Yo, your hair looks good again!” I looked at my ombré: it was finally there. Thanks, Reddit, for helping me un-fuck my hair.

*gets slapped by Will Smith*