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When I first entered the edgiest hairdresser in our special district of Chicago when I was 19 years old, brimming with the kind of ecstatic, brittle self-assurance that only occurs in freshman year of college, I asked an honestly trendy stylist to strain off all of my hair. " I was incensed, and it didn't help that I was photograph the tragic bright factor my personal mother would say if I told her about this attack:" What's wrong with a daughter hair? " A little motherly