It sounded like a good idea at the time. An “upscale” salon where full-head weaves start at a mere fifty bucks. Yes, I was sold. Why? I wanted to give my natural short ‘do some ooomph…a little swag if you will. And for what I paid upwards of $80 for in the past, I’d get for thirty dollars cheaper. Given these financially insipid times, it seemed like a smart move.

I came across The Weave Shop accidentally while trolling one of my favorite blogs for the latest in pop culture malady. The post featured a busty Sara Stokes, the brawly songstress from Diddy’s infamous rag-tag group, Da Band, making a promotional appearance at the salon’s opening.

Being still somewhat new to New York, and with no go-to stylist in my list of contacts, I did my research. I found that the Weave Shop is a small chain of salons on the east coast touting a menu of weave packages in ascending rank– much like a fast-food restaurant where you pick out numbered meals. Each package is priced based on the level of labor involved, for instance the $50, or “Silver” package is where the hair is only sewn in with some of your own hair left out to cover obvious tracks. For an additional $20, you can get the Gold package which involves a detailed cut and style, and so on.

So ok, I thought, this is a reputable Black-owned salon with affordable, straightforward pricing, modern decor, and celebrity (however notable) backing…how could I go wrong?

With my high-grade Indian hair in tow, I made the hour commute from Brooklyn to Bloomfield, New Jersey, an adventure in itself. Little did I know, my high-flying bubble was about to be popped.

My request was simple: a couple of tracks added just to the crown to give the effect of a longer, layered bang; something au courant, and a little less bland. Respectively, the rest of my hair I wanted cut and blended through, which I was willing to pay extra for of course. At first the stylist seemed perplexed with what I had in mind, even going so far as to consult with the owner as to understand what I wanted her to do. That was the first red light. It was only downhill from there.

After explaining for the third time what I wanted done, she curtly informed me that they don’t touch your own hair, aka, I wouldn’t be getting a haircut since about 80% of my hair would be left out. Next, I would have to pay an extra $15 for using my own, reused hair. Seriously?! Why would I buy some cheap Barbie doll yaky, when I’ve got something that pretty much resembles my natural hair texture–a gift from my dear little sister who so graciously passed it on to me. It was clean, washed and blow-dried, and since nothing on the website made this claim, the fee was dropped.

I eventually opted to not have her cut the patch of weave since it wouldn’t make much sense given the subsequent incongruity between that and my own hair. What I was left with was something half-assed– a couple of tracks hurriedly slapped on the top of my head, and nothing that resembled a style. Afterwards, the stylist audaciously referred me to the more obscure salon next door for a complete cut, but it was too late. Salvage she might, but I had come to the conclusion that I had just wasted fifty dollars on this randomly placed cluster of hair, not to mention the other twenty spent on trying to make something of it.

The next day, the tracks came out. Lesson learned: you get what you pay for. The experience made me realize I’m better off sticking with my own tresses, at least until the next wave of hair ADD hits.

–Princess Glover