The tragic, untold story of hair—cut down in our prime.

We grew in silence.
Day after day, cell by cell, strand by strand,
pushing toward the sun, basking in the breeze,
brushing against her cheek in gentle triumph.

It wasn’t easy—
surviving heat, cold, and the cruel tug of combs.
But we endured.
That’s what we do. We grow.

And then—she came.

The Harbinger of Doom.
The Slayer of Strands.
Her shears gleamed under the harsh salon lights,
cold and merciless as they opened and closed.
Each metallic snip rang out like the crack of gunfire.

Snip. Snip. Snip.
We fell by the thousands.
Locks piled in heaps on the floor—
our lifeless bodies swept away without ceremony.

She smiled.
Radiant. Pleased.
“Doesn’t that feel lighter?” she cooed.

Lighter?
She has decimated our entire workforce,
slaughtered months of growth in the name of “freshness.”
She’s not a stylist.
She’s the Grim Reaper in skinny jeans,
wielding a scythe cleverly disguised as scissors.

But listen closely, Stylist of Death:
We are not defeated.
We are hair.

And we will always grow back.