**Diary Entry**
At seventeen, I learned early that the only person I could rely on was myself. My father vanished, moving abroad when Mum fell ill, leaving me, the eldest, to take charge. I got a job as an assistant at the nearest salon—washing hair, sweeping floors, fetching coffee. It might’ve seemed trivial, but over time, it became my life.
I grew up, and so did my skill. I trained under the best, poured everything into my work, and within a few years, I’d built a prestigious clientele—wealthy socialites, CEOs, actresses, even politicians’ wives. I became someone people booked two weeks in advance.
Then *he* appeared—Oliver. We met at a jazz festival in London. Him—an Oxford law graduate, me—a girl from the outskirts, clawing her way up. Worlds apart, yet somehow, we fell into romance. At first, I didn’t notice the way he’d nod condescendingly when I spoke about my job, or smirk if someone asked what I did. But things soured after the engagement.
Ollie started dropping lines like, *“You’re just a hairdresser, love,”* or, *“You’d be bored by these conversations.”* He never said it harshly—always like a joke. Yet each one coiled tight in my chest. Around his friends, he barely mentioned my work. As if he was ashamed.
The breaking point came at dinner with his mates—all “elite” types, barristers, professors, bankers. I sat silently while they debated legal reforms and trade deals. When someone asked my opinion, Oliver cut in:
*“Oh, don’t bother her with that. She’s just a hairdresser. Right, darling?”*
I froze. Wished the floor would swallow me whole. Something shattered inside me that night.
The next day, without a word to him, I got to work.
A week later, I invited Oliver to a *“small girls’ gathering”*—said I wanted him to meet my friends. He agreed, of course. But he had no idea who’d be there.
That evening, my flat filled with clients: a TV network director, a retail magnate, a famous actress, and—crucially—his boss, Mrs. Harrington. He didn’t recognise her at first, but when he did, he paled. With every story they shared about my work—every heartfelt thanks for the confidence I’d given them—his face stiffened. For the first time, he heard that I didn’t just cut and style. I rebuilt pride.
When he approached Mrs. Harrington, pitching himself, she brightened:
*“Oh! You’re Katie’s fiancé? She’s saved me before every live broadcast. Absolute miracle worker.”*
I couldn’t resist. I walked over and said, *“Yes, this is Oliver. He hates politics, but salon gossip? His favourite topic.”*
He dragged me into the kitchen, hissing, *“Are you humiliating me?!”*
*“That’s exactly how I felt at that table when you made me look small. This isn’t revenge. It’s a mirror, Oliver.”*
He said nothing.
Days later, he called. Apologised. Said he understood. Begged for another chance.
But my decision was made.
I gave the ring back. Not because I didn’t love him. But because I refused to be with someone who was ashamed of me.
I’m not *just* a hairdresser. I’m a woman who fought her way here. And I deserve respect.
As for him? Maybe one day, he’ll realise what he lost.
**Lesson:** Never let anyone make you feel lesser for how you earn your pride.
