Part One: Before the Chair
Before I Ever Picked Up Shears
Before I ever held shears in my hand, I learned how to work. I learned it early — not because I had some grand plan, but because working was simply part of life. At thirteen, I became a junior counselor at the YMCA. By fourteen, I was spending my summers helping younger kids and learning responsibility the hard way. At fifteen, my mother took me to the Texas Workforce Commission so I could get my first real job. That summer, I worked at City Hall in Dripping Springs so I could afford school clothes before starting high school.
Work was never optional. It was structure, survival, and pride all wrapped into one.
After that came Sonic during my Dripping Springs High School years. Then, briefly, community college — one semester at ACC studying art. Art had always been part of my life. It was something free my mother could give me, something that kept my hands busy and my mind focused. I gravitated toward it naturally and became almost obsessed with creating from a young age.
Still, I didn’t yet know what I was meant to do with it.
What I did know was this: I did not want to wake up at forty years old still waiting tables at a sports bar, wondering where the years went.
Finding My Way Into the Salon World
After leaving ACC, I went back into what I knew — waiting tables and bartending. I had been working since I was thirteen, and the service industry felt familiar. Fast-paced. Social. Honest work. Then I took a job as a receptionist at The Color Salon in Austin.
At first, it was simply a job. But in between checking clients in and out, answering phones, and managing the front desk during busy hours, something began to feel familiar.
Talking to clients felt exactly like bartending.
The rhythm. The conversations. The way people opened up — sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. But here, the environment felt elevated. Calmer. More intentional. The hours were better. The work felt different.
I watched stylists build long-standing relationships with their clients. I watched trust form over time. I started to understand that hair wasn’t the point. Care was.
The Moment I Understood the Industry
One day, the salon owner — Lisa — was informed that her longtime client, who had been battling terminal brain cancer, was near the end. This client had been seeing her for many years. When she was hospitalized, her final request was simple: she wanted Lisa to come and do her nails one last time.
I remember watching how Lisa handled that moment.
She didn’t fall apart. She didn’t make it about herself. She stayed composed, professional, and incredibly present. She knew she had to hold it together — for her client. There was something about that restraint that struck me deeply.
My role that day was small. I was asked to walk across the street to Central Market and choose a bouquet of flowers to bring with her. Standing there, holding those flowers, I felt the weight of what I was witnessing — not in a dramatic way, but in a quiet, grounding one. This wasn’t just a service.
This was trust earned over years. This was being invited into someone’s life at its most vulnerable moment — not as blood, but as chosen family.
That stayed with me.
When the Direction Changed
Not long after, Lisa was promoted within the CHI company and offered a role as a stage director for their hair shows. It was a huge opportunity — one she had worked years for. She had to sell the salon and relocate to CHI’s home base in Houston.
When that chapter ended, something shifted for me.
The salon had been my window into the industry. Watching her move forward made me realize I didn’t want to stay at the front desk forever. I wanted to step fully into the work itself. That was the moment I decided to go to beauty school.
Choosing Beauty School
In 2008, at twenty-four years old, I enrolled.
When I toured Regency Beauty Institute, everything sparkled. The building was brand new. The equipment was described as state-of-the-art. The environment felt polished and exciting. They were upfront about the cost — $24,000 — but reassured me it would be covered through financial aid. It sounded manageable. Temporary. Worth it. The president of the school carried herself with confidence and authority. She spoke about professionalism, opportunity, and longevity in the industry. I believed her.
For the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
At the beginning, beauty school felt energizing. The black dress code made everything feel clean and intentional. I didn’t have to second-guess myself. I felt put together — like I belonged somewhere creative but structured.
But slowly, the cracks began to show.
Instructors disappeared. Leadership changed. We became severely understaffed. At one point, when we were supposed to be learning theory, we were brought into a classroom and played Finding Nemo. That was the moment something inside me shifted.
If I was going to invest years of my life — and tens of thousands of dollars — this couldn’t be it. So I made the decision to transfer.
And that decision would change everything.
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