I hoped my stylist Jeff wouldn't notice, but sure enough, as soon as I sat down, he pulled the hair on both sides of my head to check if they were even. They weren't.
"So how's it going?" he asked.
"Okay," I said, without enthusiasm.
"Okay? Not what I was hoping to hear."
"Something felt off to me this time around."
"Like what?"
"Well, this haircut kinda felt ... mean."
"Mean?! Your hair felt mean?!"
Jeff gaped in the mirror, appalled, as he levered my chair up three bounces. I fluttered my hands from under my black gown to grip the longish sideburns framing my ears.
"These tufts are too bulky or something. The whole effect is kind of ... severe."
"Mean hair." Jeff tilted his head to one side. "Not good."
In my mind, the red flag was now flapping madly: It's like complaining to the cook about the food, I realized--he could very easily just spit in it and return it to your table. Would Jeff retaliate by shaving my head?

At the last minute (and after I took this photo), Jeff had the inspiration to color my eyebrows, which I think really helped with the mean factor.

