I’ve dedicated my life to observing human behavior. I’ve spent years studying American society closely. My work spans all six states in New England. I even crossed borders into the foreign and exotic lands of Canada and Ireland. The result of my work is this: I have met every kind of Caucasian person that exists on this planet. Critically, I am here to alert readers to one of our shining jewels. A species that is both beautiful and vibrant, but I fear they are inching closer and closer to extinction with each passing day.
We need to save our hair salon queens.
Let me clarify exactly who this particular subsect of our caucasian population is. You must first envision the hair salon that these queens work in. This is not Supercuts. This salon has Marilyn Monroe pop art. This salon has one exposed brick wall. This salon is playing Sheryl Crow’s music. And who runs this joint? Well, the queen of course.
The queen is not a girl boss. The queen is a sarcastic and snarky aging gay man. His hair is grey now, and he’s put on a few pounds, but he still holds that damn salon together.
There’s a few ways to identify a queen once you’ve noticed that you’re in their habitat, but let’s focus on the most effective strategy. Listen closely. If you hear a voice loudly discussing gay culture in the 1990s, you’ve found him. Once identified, his presence is impossible to ignore. However, you might be hesitant or afraid to engage. This is the appropriate reaction because, in my experience, the queen’s first instinct is to make a scathing remark about some characteristic intrinsic to your identity.
It is important to persist past this initial exchange. This is how the queen protects himself. Society has scorned him and forced him to retreat behind a plethora of defense mechanisms. But underneath all his sass, lack of political efficacy, and casual mentions of oral sex, there is a man who loves women. Not in the normal way obviously, but it’s love all the same.
This love is what should draw these queens closer to your heart. Each root touch up is handled with an affection that cannot be matched by your typical female hairstylist named Heather. Heather goes home every night to her mostly unemployed boyfriend, who greets her with a slap on the ass. A hair salon queen goes home to his chic apartment and watches Project Runway with his manicured “partner” before he goes to sleep early.
Heather is threatening the very existence of the hair salon scene’s beloved queen. She is akin to an invasive species. She is running the native species out of their rightful environment. With each passing day, another young woman enters cosmetology school and starts an Instagram account dedicated to her progress as a stylist. The queens cannot keep up! They do not know how Instagram works. The salon queen promotes his work exclusively through word of mouth. If the trend of gay men and middle-aged divorced mothers finding their hairstylist through social media continues, the hair salon queen will only have one client left: the old woman looking for her first pixie cut. And soon, these women will die, and the hair salon queen’s clientele will be completely gone. The fabric of hair salons everywhere will be irrevocably damaged by the extinction of this breed.
As an expert in this subject, I am telling you that there is only one kind of white person who will style a woman’s hair without any malice in his heart. In order to save them, it is imperative that the people continue to patronize these queens, even if it means listening to the same story about spiritual enlightenment achieved in his Asian travels each time you see him. The ‘do’ he does for you will make the whole ordeal worth it!
