Oh, he called me just a hairdresser in front of all his mates. Made sure he felt exactly how humiliating that is.
At seventeen, I learned early that the only person I could rely on was myself. My dad vanished, moved abroad when Mum got really sick. Being the eldest, I took everything on—got a job as an assistant at the nearest salon. Washed hair, swept floors, fetched coffees. Sounds like nothing special, but bit by bit, it became my whole life.
I grew up, and so did my skills. Learned from the best, put everything into my work, and a few years later, I had a solid list of clients—women with status, business owners, actresses, politicians’ wives. The kind who book appointments two weeks in advance.
Then *he* showed up—Henry. We met at a jazz festival in London. Him—an Oxford law grad, me—a girl from the outskirts who’d clawed her way up. Worlds apart, but somehow, we got together. At first, I didn’t notice the way he’d nod like he was humouring me when I talked about my job. Or how he’d smirk if someone asked what I did. But things properly started going downhill after we got engaged.
Henry kept dropping little comments—“You’re just a hairdresser, love,” or “You’d find these conversations boring.” Never said it outright, just tossed it out like a joke. Except those jokes made my stomach twist. Around his friends, he’d barely mention what I did—like he was embarrassed.
The final straw came at a dinner with his mates. All “elite” types—lawyers, lecturers, bankers. I stayed quiet, listening to them debate new legislation and international treaties. Then someone asked me a question, and before I could speak, Henry cut in:
“Don’t bother her with all that. She’s just a hairdresser. Right, darling?”
I froze. Wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Something inside me just… shattered.
Next day, without a word to him, I got to work.
A week later, I invited Henry to a “little girls’ night”—said I wanted him to meet my friends. Of course, he agreed. Had no idea who’d actually be there.
That evening, my flat was packed with clients—a TV network director, a retail chain owner, a famous actress, and—oh, this was the kicker—his *boss*, Mrs. Thompson. Took him a second to place her, but when he did? He went pale. Every story they shared about me, every genuine thank-you for helping them look and feel their best, his face just—hardened. For the first time, he heard that I don’t just cut and style hair—I give confidence, lift people up.
When he tried chatting up Mrs. Thompson, she blinked and said, “Oh, you’re Katie’s fiancé? She’s saved me before every live broadcast. Absolute genius with scissors.”
Couldn’t resist. I walked over and said, “Yeah, this is Henry. Hates politics, but *hairdressing*—now that’s his passion.”
He dragged me into the kitchen. “Are you taking the *piss*?!” he hissed. “That was *humiliating*!”
“Exactly how I felt at that table with your mates when you made me look stupid. Not revenge, Henry. Just a mirror.”
He didn’t say a word.
Few days later, he called. Apologised. Said he finally got it. Wanted to start over.
But my mind was made up.
I gave him the ring back. Not because I didn’t love him. Because I realised—I shouldn’t be with someone ashamed of me.
I’m not *just* a hairdresser. I’m the woman who fought her way up. And I deserve respect.
As for him? Maybe one day he’ll realise what he lost.
