The beauty industry has always had a front-row seat to the quirks of humanity, a theater of foibles and faux pas that play out in hair dye and nail polish. But every so often, a stylist stumbles upon a story that hits a level of absurdity that deserves center stage. Enter Terry, a self-described “stereotypical New Yorker” in her late 40s, a woman who comes into the salon a few times a year to air grievances and trim the frizz off her life. (A quick note before we go further: This essay, written by Observer, is based on a true story from a source who wants to remain anonymous.)

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Picture it: tall, beautiful, blonde, intense, with the kind of energy that could barrel through Manhattan traffic without spilling her coffee. Terry is one of those New Yorkers who “tells it like it is”—as she reminds me regularly—and “if you don’t like her personality, that’s your problem.” She’s been single as long as I’ve known her, which is to say, perpetually, with enough romantic fumbles behind her to justify a small library. Her love life, or lack thereof, comes in second only to her legendary tales of run-ins with Gen Z coworkers. “How am I supposed to work with these kids?” she asks, voice raised just enough to draw glances from the neighboring chair. “You ask them a question, they don’t........

© Observer