There are few things as complicated as the booking page of an Instagram-famous Black hairstylist. You know the one: She has 50,000-plus followers, promotional videos brightened by ring lights, and, of course, an “as.me link in her bio.
You click it, and a bright-pink booking page with bold lettering beckons you in, revealing a maze of red flags that leave you questioning: Today’s hair-booking process feels more like a battle of resilience. Disappointment deepens with every pause. Then comes the scoff at yet another rule.
If your hair is too short, expect an extra fee tacked on. Want to secure a spot? You’ll need to channel your inner -esque competitive spirit to snag an available time slot far in advance before it vanishes before your eyes. Oh, and “squeeze-in” fees are a thing—as in, customers can pay extra if they want to be alerted when an appointment miraculously opens in a hairstylist’s calendar.
And while you’re held to a strict 10-minute grace period to avoid penalties, don’t be surprised if your stylist takes an hour to begin your service—with no repercussions. Daunting and downright exhausting, the whole hair-booking experience drives you straight to DIY hair videos on YouTube or into the chairs of African braiding shops. Where did the care and connection so unique and vital to the Black community go? For generations, Black hair salons have served as more than just a place to go for a transformation—they’ve served as tiny havens where communit.