When you see a fantastic colour or cut in a magazine, perched up

Quote: “When you see a fantastic colour or cut in a magazine, perched up on some famous so-and-so’s head, it’s tempting to ask your stylist for the same, but do not be fooled. The hair in those fancy photos can be very high maintenance.”
Author: Beth Ditto

Host: The city was glowing under the last light of sunset, every glass window catching fire with gold. Inside a small, bohemian salon tucked between an antique bookstore and a flower shop, the air smelled of shampoo, coffee, and the faint ozone of a curling iron.

Mirrors lined the walls, multiplying faces, light, and dreams — some fragile, some already breaking.

Jack sat slouched in a cracked leather chair, scrolling through his phone, while Jeeny, draped in a white smock, waited as the stylist combed through her long, dark hair. A magazine lay open on the counter — glossy, bright, absurdly perfect.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Beth Ditto once said something that always makes me laugh — ‘When you see a fantastic colour or cut in a magazine... don’t be fooled. The hair in those fancy photos can be very high maintenance.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “So, basically, don’t trust the dream someone else is selling.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Exactly. But it’s not just about hair, is it? It’s about all the illusions we buy — beauty, success, love, even happiness. All polished until it looks effortless.”

Host: The stylist’s scissors whispered through the air, snipping away small threads of silence. Outside, a motorcycle roared past, breaking the quiet like a streak of rebellion.

Jack: “Yeah, well, people need illusions. Without them, the world’s mirror is too damn harsh. No one wants to stare at their unfiltered life.”

Jeeny: “So we build masks, right? We dye, we filter, we pose. But what happens when the mask becomes the face?”

Jack: (chuckles) “Then you’ve finally made it to Instagram.”

Jeeny: (smirks but her voice softens) “No, Jack, I’m serious. We all get trapped chasing some image of what we think we should look like, live like, love like. But it’s fake — like the airbrushed haircuts in that magazine.”

Host: The stylist paused, catching Jeeny’s reflection in the mirror, and for a second, even she seemed to listen. The light flickered against the silver shears, glinting like small truths trying to cut through the glamour.

Jack: “You talk like perfection is a lie. But isn’t it just aspiration? You see someone’s perfect hair, and it makes you want to be better — look better, live better.”

Jeeny: “There’s a difference between growth and pretending. Between trying to be your best self and trying to be someone else’s fantasy.”

Jack: “So you’re saying it’s wrong to want things that look beautiful?”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying it’s dangerous to believe that beauty equals worth. That’s the trick. They sell you effortless perfection, but behind it is hours of styling, money, pressure, and sometimes a lot of pain.”

Host: The blow dryer started humming in the background, a mechanical wind filling the room with warmth and noise. Yet beneath it, their words carried a different kind of electricity — one that hummed in the silences between their lines.

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like you’ve been burned before. What was it — a bad haircut or a bad illusion?”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Both. I once thought if I looked a certain way, people would finally see me. So I spent months chasing a version of myself I didn’t even like. And when I finally caught up — I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.”

Jack: “That’s dramatic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s human. You ever done something like that? Tried to fit into a picture that wasn’t yours?”

Jack: (pauses, glancing at the mirror) “Maybe once. When I married someone who wanted a husband, not a man.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And you became the picture she wanted.”

Jack: “Until it fell apart. Turns out pretending to be perfect is the hardest thing you can do.”

Host: The mirror caught both their reflections — side by side but worlds apart. Jeeny’s eyes glowed with quiet empathy, while Jack’s looked distant, as though seeing a ghost version of himself in the glass.

Jeeny: “That’s what Ditto meant, you know. High-maintenance doesn’t just mean it takes time — it means it costs you something real. Every fake color you add takes away a bit of what was yours.”

Jack: (leans back, looking thoughtful) “So you think people should just stay natural? No dye, no dreams?”

Jeeny: “No, I think we should know the price of what we’re buying. It’s fine to chase beauty — just don’t lose your truth in the process.”

Jack: “So, like… authenticity with conditioner?”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Something like that.”

Host: The stylist unplugged the dryer, and silence fell like soft dust. The air smelled faintly of citrus and burnt hair, that strange perfume of transformation. Jeeny brushed her fingers through her new cut, examining herself with a careful smile.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny. We keep telling ourselves we just want to look like the people in magazines. But those people? Half the time, they don’t even look like themselves. Just lighting, editing, and a team of people to make magic that fades the moment the camera turns off.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the curse of living in a filtered world. Nobody believes in raw truth anymore. Everyone wants the cinematic version of life.”

Jeeny: “Even our sadness has to be aesthetic now.”

Jack: (sighs) “Yeah. Cry pretty, or don’t cry at all.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at Jeeny’s lips, but her eyes were far away — reflecting not the mirror, but the city lights outside, blinking like restless promises.

Jeeny: “You know what the real tragedy is, Jack? The more we chase looking perfect, the less we actually live. We spend all our time maintaining the illusion, and the moment slips right past us.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what we are now — caretakers of our own illusions.”

Jeeny: “Then we’d better start choosing better ones.”

Host: Outside, the sky had turned deep violet, the streetlights casting pools of soft amber along the wet pavement. A young woman passed by, holding her phone up, capturing her reflection in the salon window. The image flashed — a second of glamour, then gone.

Inside, Jeeny stood, running a hand through her new hair, testing how it fell, how it felt — not how it looked.

Jeeny: (to Jack) “You know, I think the best kind of beauty is the kind that doesn’t need a touch-up every five minutes.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You mean the kind that actually grows on you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind that stays even when the light goes out.”

Host: Jack rose from his seat, his reflection blurred in the mirror as he stepped into the dim light. Jeeny turned to him — her eyes steady, her smile unpolished but true.

For a moment, the world outside seemed to slow — the hum of the city, the glitter of shop windows, all fading into something real, something ordinary but alive.

Host: The camera would linger on their reflections, side by side — imperfect, human, unfiltered. And in that mirror, amid all the illusions the world keeps selling, something quietly authentic flickered to life.

A reminder that not everything beautiful has to be high maintenance — sometimes, it just has to be real.