As Black women, we take great pride in our hair and will go to great lengths to make sure we achieve the perfect style — no matter the time or effort it involves. And honestly, we will pay whatever the cost. So it’s not surprising that the global Black haircare market is expected to reach $4.9 billion by 2033, up from $3.2 billion in 2023.

With so much time, money, and energy invested in our hair, finally securing an appointment with the right stylist should feel like a win. And at first, it does. But what happens when that excitement falls short of expectations? What once was a cultural safe haven for women, a place for community and a sanctuary to literally and figuratively let your hair down has become a source of frustration or, worst case scenario, a complete nightmare due to an increase in unprofessional hairstylists.

Let’s take a collective deep sigh because we need to talk about it. I know it’s not just me because I have these conversations every other week — at brunch, in coffee shops, or in the group chat about the latest saga of lack of professionalism in Black hair salons. From booking to the final styling, the complete disregard for basic business practices shows up at every step of the process. It wasn’t always like this. So what happened?

Now, I pride myself on being a law-abiding Black-hair client. I take the time to read all the terms and conditions before booking an appointment. Through my experiences, I’ve become well-versed in what has seemingly become the industry standard. The average late fee is between $15 and $30 if you arrive up to 15 minutes late to the appointment. Many stylists will understandably require you to reschedule the appointment for anything beyond that, and you will forfeit the security deposit.

But professionalism is a two-way street. If there’s a financial penalty for me as a client, there should be one for the stylist. For me, one of the first signs of an unprofessional stylist is the lack of a policy on how they handle running behind schedule. It does not sit right with me that I am required to be on time to avoid a late fee, yet many stylists don’t offer any type of discount on my service when they’re running late.

Some unprofessional stylists cancel appointments at an unreasonable time. I understand that life happens and things come up. However, if clients are a no-call, no-show, or cancel less than 24 hours before the appointment, stylists will charge at least 50% of the service booked (in addition to the forfeited deposit) with the credit card on file.

Yet, there was no one for me to charge for the inconvenience when a Houston stylist canceled my 7:00 a.m. sew-in appointment around 8:43 p.m. the night before. She texted that she did not have the hair I requested but suggested I could still get serviced with my own extensions, with different hair she had available, or I could choose a different service. The stylist not having the hair wasn’t the problem — it’s the fact that the service and hair were available to book in the first place.

If she had alerted me earlier in the day, I could have found hair extensions in Houston and, while annoyed, still made the appointment. Why shouldn’t I demand that my service be 50% off when using her rules? This particular stylist has permanently lost me as a customer. I continue to warn my inner circle to avoid her services because God forbid she cancels on my family or friends before their first day of work like she did me.

The unprofessionalism plaguing the hair industry is bigger than deposits, cancellations or no-show fees. My sister, who has locs down to her waist, stopped going to her loctician because she frequently took breaks to gossip on the phone in another room.

A growing number of stylists — mainly braiders— now expect clients to arrive with their hair already washed and blow-dried. And if your hair is longer than shoulder length or considered thick, extra charges will likely be added for certain styles, from braids to silk presses.

DeAnna Maxwell, who considers herself an “old-school” stylist and founder of Unto Him Hair Salon and Spa in Akron, Ohio, says, “I always teach consumers, whether my client or somebody else’s, to interview your hairdresser the same way you would ask questions to a company during a job interview.”

She added, “Find out about the hairstylist policies and processes. They should not service you if you feel uncomfortable.” This reinforces a valid point that client-stylist relationships should be built on mutual trust, respect and understanding.

Undeniably, stylists face financial challenges from unreliable clients, leading to many having opted to set up terms, conditions and deposits. As hairstylist and TikTok user hairstylistbusinesscoach states, “I run a business and not a charity. When you book a time slot, that’s a time slot that we couldn’t give somebody else. Y’all gotta realize this is how we take care of our families. This is how we pay our bills.” This highlights the business realities driving these policies.

It’s also clear that some hairstylists have probably reached their breaking points with foul clients. Although these are justifiable frustrations it shouldn’t lead or translate into unprofessional conduct across the board.

According to fashion and costume historian Shelby Ivey Christie, one significant reason for unprofessional hairstylists is the lack of experience. “A salon suite does not make a professional stylist,” she said on X, in response to the viral incident involving Jayla Cunningham, a Maryland stylist facing second-degree assault charges for allegedly assaulting a 15-year-old and cutting out her extensions over a payment dispute.

Cunningham told local reporters the teen she serviced tried running out of the appointment without paying. However, the teen’s mother says she sent the money to the wrong Cash App user.

“Professional is not describing your ability to take payments. Professional is actually alluding to your level of mastery in your skilled work and your years of experience,” Christie continued. Further reiterating that the situation could have been de-escalated with greater experience and professionalism.

Maxwell, who has been an entrepreneur for nearly three decades, reinforces this, stressing the importance of mentorship for younger hairstylists beginning their careers in the industry.

“Many new hairstylists come out of school with false hope and think that hair school teaches you everything you need to know, but hair school only teaches you how to pass state boards,” she says. “Mentorship will teach professionalism and allow new stylists to retain clientele to thrive in this business.”

As more clients continue to speak out in hopes to hold stylists accountable, I hope this moment ignites a reckoning between hairstylists and clients. I hope we can find common ground, where we respect each other’s time, uphold professionalism and reclaim the joy in our haircare experiences.  Otherwise, at least for me, the alternative is investing in a one-on-one class and learning some of these skills myself. Since many of us are already required to come with our hair washed, blow-dried, and stretched out, we’re halfway there in the styling process. Imagine how much money and frustration we could save by bypassing the stylists who show little to no regard for professionalism or our hard-earned coins.

At the same time, we can’t ignore the rich legacy we all stand on. The rise of Black women entrepreneurs today is built on the foundation of pioneering women like Madam C.J. Walker, who transformed the haircare industry through mastery, innovation, and service. Both stylists and clients are descendants of this legacy, one shaped by women who took great honor in their craft and reputation. Our hair is more than just aesthetics, it’s a symbol of our individuality, a form of personal self-expression that deserves to be handled with care. When we have a lackluster experience, it doesn’t just waste our time and money. It diminishes the artistry and cultural significance of our crown.

As a community and for our culture, it’s time to get back to a place where getting our hair done is a positive experience, not a hassle. A space of community, self-care, comfort and excellence—where professionalism isn’t optional but expected.

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Spoilers ahead. Severance is the hit TV series everyone is talking about. The show focuses on four workers who choose to undergo a radical “severance procedure” to split their consciousness in two: an “innie” who only lives to work with no memories of who they are, and an “outtie” who knows nothing about their work life. Praised for its incisive science-fiction take on the very zeitgeisty topic of modern-day work, Severance accurately depicts what it means to have no freedom in the workplace. Season 2 has built on these relatable themes, introducing race as a key factor within the creepy, hollow corporate hell that is Lumon. This season hints at everything from workplace microaggressions and double standards, to empty diversity initiatives and even Black resistance. So what does Severance reveal about what it means to be Black in the corporate world?

Mr. Milchick (Tramell Tillman) is one of the only unsevered Black staff members in a position of some authority at Lumen, navigating a largely white corporation. He spends a lot of time in series one doing the dirty work of middle management, attempting to discipline and incentivize the Macrodata Refinement team. In Season 2, he’s gotten a promotion, replacing Miss Cobel (Patricia Arquette) and joining the management team, but it’s not all it seems. He is tasked with the messy, impossible job of resolving the aftermath of the Macrodata revolt which involves him firing and then (with the help of a pineapple) rehiring all the workers again. He may have a shiny new title, but Miss Cobel’s name is still on the computer welcome message in her office, suggesting Milchick was a quick, maybe even temporary replacement, rather than a worker valued for their talents and thoughtfully promoted.

Milchick never fails when it comes to having an amazing fit on, but his snappy attire suggests he is more than just a stylish dresser: he’s somewhat of an outsider. The contrast between his trendy appearance and the drab aesthetic of the other managers, or the faceless board, suggests his outsider status means he may never fully belong, and he could be discarded the moment he becomes inconvenient. His leather jacket worn early in Season 2 also hints at a potential to rebel.

When speaking to Severance director Ben Stiller and actor Adam Scott (who plays Mark Scout) on the official Severance podcast, Tramell Tillman said he asked Ben and Severance writer Dan Erickson, “Does Milchick know he’s Black?…It was important to know if this character understood he is different from this culture.” The push by Tillman to understand Milchick on a deeper level reveals a tension between Milchick’s desire to succeed in the corporate world, what’s ethically right and the racism he also personally faces. Tillman added “I think there’s a doctrine or philosophy, a history [at Lumon] that he really attaches himself to, that empowers him in some way that he continues day after day to be a part of this.”  As abhorrent as Mr. Milchick’s complicity in an abusive systems is, his story has a tragic arc; he seems unlikely to ever get the recognition he is looking for.

His outsider status becomes extremely pronounced in a now viral scene in Season 2, Episode 3  when he meets Black Lumon worker Natalie (Sydney Cole Alexander) in his office for an impromptu meeting with the board via intercom. Only Natalie can hear and converse with them through her headset, as she presents him with some gifts on behalf of the board: several “inclusively recannonized paintings” to help him “see yourself in Keir.” The images of the white Lumon founder Keir reconstituted in essentially Blackface seems to be alarming to Milchick, expressing concern with his facial expressions whilst Natalie in a strained smile and a cry for help in her eyes, says she received a similar gift and found it “extremely moving”. The various unspoken ways racialized staff communicate with one another feels extremely familiar — a small glance, a slight widening of eyes —  during uncomfortable or outright racist moments in the workplace. You’re always conscious that your actions are often under surveillance.

This scene also reveals something that gets to the heart of many corporate diversity initiatives and the limitations of representation. The board assumes that Mr. Milchick will feel honored to “see himself” in the deity-like figure of Keir, and believes this symbolic gesture of diversity by reimagining Keir as a Black man is akin to real structural change. Whilst there are DEI efforts that can genuinely tackle real forms of inequity in an organization, many big corporate DEI efforts are window dressing, an attempt to make superficial changes in the branding or marketing of that company, rather than addressing substantive issues such as discriminatory hiring practices, ethnicity/gender pay gaps or exploitative abuses of workers in the global south. Milchick is later reprimanded in a formal appraisal for having a “too friendly” and paternalistic an approach to the Macrodata team, showing he’s useful to diversify Lumen’s image, but he has no real decision-making powers, nor can he actively push for any real improvement in the severed workers’ treatment. As we’ve seen in real life, once it’s no longer politically convenient to have DEI initiatives, corporations will just throw them away.

Sometimes identity-related storylines can feel clunky or forced (see Emilia Perez), especially if the writers have added it purely as an “add on” or to tick a box. However, Severance’s subtle exploration of race feels natural to the story. The divisive, exploitative and dehumanizing nature of racism is, for some, an essential component of capitalism. In Severance, the suggestion is that race isn’t a separate issue from capitalism, but that it can determine how different characters experience power, labor, and control within Lumon’s corporate dystopia. It’s revealed in Season 1 that Lumon was established in 1865, the same year slavery was abolished in the U.S. suggesting that the company represents the evolution from chattel slavery to corporate exploitation. After abolition, the U.S. economy found new ways to extract labor from Black people: sharecropping, prison labor, and low-wage industrial labor. It also begs the question was the company’s wealth originally built on slavery? Lumon seems to be a corporate embodiment of how racial and economic oppression are symbiotic, and essential to how our modern world functions.

As well as the links to capitalism, its exploration of race is also deeply connected to the show’s philosophical central question: what really makes us who we are? Are the “innies” — who’ve not been worn down by the weight of the world —  a more accurate depiction of the character’s true selves? Are the innies actually less human as they are totally divorced from the memories, experiences and grief that shape their outties?

Writer and academic W.E.B Dubois wrote about the concept of  “double consciousness” in his book The Souls of Black Folk which captured the duality of the Black American experience. He believed that Black Americans faced an inner struggle to remain true to themselves while at the same time conforming to the dominant white society. This struggle created a “split” or double consciousness of the soul: the real person and a projected dehumanizing idea of Blackness within a white supremacist society. Du Bois wrote “one ever feels his two-ness, an American, a Negro, two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings.”. In a heartbreaking scene in Episode 5 after Milchick is reprimanded by his superiors for using “too many big words” and incorrectly using paper clips, he stares into a mirror, disgusted and shouting at himself. His body and its reflection are in frame, once again referencing the concept of “two selves,” as Milchick wrestles with himself and the version of himself projected onto him within a racist corporate environment. His presence is tolerated at Lumen because he serves a function—but he is never fully integrated into or respected by the power structure.

The pressure of this duality is evident in Mr. Milchick’s and Natalie’s characters. Although neither of them are actually severed (as far as we know), they often seem to be playing a part, or hiding their true feelings, in an effort to maintain their positions at Lumen. Natalie, for example, frequently maintains a plastered smile which never feels genuine, using hollow corporate phrases like “the board is jubilant at your ascendance.” When Mr. Milchick speaks with her delicately using euphemisms to cautiously gauge her thoughts on how she really felt about receiving a Keir painting, she never breaks her outer facade and does not engage with what he’s really asking. Both characters seem tempted at times to show more of their “real selves” at Lumen but never quite dare to transgress into their more human side. The show demonstrates that being racialized in predominantly white spaces is also its own kind of “severance” and their racialization as Black staff members is an integral part of that.

Milchick and Natalie’s complicity in exploitation makes it difficult at times to empathize with them. “He’s participating in dodgy behavior, how does he reconcile that?” asked Tillman to Stiller and Scott on the Severance podcast. “How does he sleep at night knowing what he’s doing to these innies?…I know he senses the ethical issues. This is a man of duty, of task, he has a job at hand and he goes and serves the mission.” There are many historical instances where some Black people were placed in roles that required them to enforce oppressive systems on other marginalized groups — slave plantations, and western imperial rule all relied on some racialized people being willing to do the white master’s bidding.

But, not all the Black workers are quietly compliant. Dylan (Zach Cherry), the only severed worker of color on the Macrodata team, is also the first to actively resist the system after getting the chance to meet his outtie’s son briefly. He understands just how much has been taken from him, and then rejects the empty company incentives used to pacify workers (like sweet treats or finger traps) and at the end of Season 1, Dylan uses his physical strength to hold the doors open to allow his teammates the time they need to let the outside world know about the abuses on the severed floor. Asal Reghabi (Karen Aldridge) is an ex-Lumen staff member who works from the outside, using her scientific knowledge to attempt the risky process of “reintegrating” severed workers. Her actions suggest she’s not interested in reform of Lumon, but seeks to expose it and destroy it, a militant approach. Whilst we don’t know much about her background, we can assume that she didn’t see value ultimately in attempting to “change things from the inside” which echoes Black liberation tactics. She also is a valuable resource to protagonist “outtie” Mark (Adam Scott), urging him to take action and challenge Lumen’s exploitation.

Cultural scholar Stuart Hall famously said “race is the modality in which class is lived”. He believed race is often how Black people make sense of their structural oppression, and that your race is likely to determine your class position. At a time when many across the political spectrum are reductively dismissing all forms of  “identity politics,” Severance brings to life the reality that our identities get right to the heart of what it means to live in a capitalist society. It’s definitely a timely message worth listening to.

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My first interaction with artificial intelligence occurred when I was a kid: playing video games. Whether I was chatting with NPCs to complete a quest or playing online checkers against an “opponent,” the computer acted as a kind of digital companion.

But my deeper introduction came later in college while studying computer science. In 2018, during my senior year, I took an “Intro to AI” course, where I learned to write programs that could solve problems autonomously. I built a Sudoku solver that could complete puzzles on its own and programmed a Pac-Man game, where my intelligent Pac-Man navigated the maze, collecting coins while avoiding ghosts. And while, in retrospect, it was a rudimentary introduction to the vast world of AI, it taught me how “knowledge” can be represented in a computer, how a system thinks.

The core ideas are still there, but obviously AI has evolved significantly in the last seven years — especially in the realm of image generation. To be honest, I initially shared the general public’s skepticism. I kept my distance, wary of its implications. Seeing how some people were using generative AI tools like DALL-E or Midjourney — inputting prompts to generate surreal (and at many times visually “muddy”) images trained on web-scraped content, without artists’ consent — only solidified my stance. It felt like an emerging artistic landscape where speed and quantity were prioritized over intentionality and craftsmanship. I worried that the world of creative technology would be reduced to a handful of controversial platforms.

I’d tell people, “I make art with code,” and many would assume it was AI art, that a computer was doing most of the work. It felt invalidating, like I had to prove myself as a new media artist. I felt like I needed to justify my process, explaining that I actually spent years studying the fundamentals of visual design, or that I’d spend hours sketching ideas on paper and then twice the amount of time meticulously translating them into code, carefully shaping the logic that would bring them to life.

So, I refused to use AI in my work because it felt like “cheating.” I held tightly to my tried-and-true methods of creative coding, afraid of being seen as someone lacking vision or skill — someone who relied on a computer to do the creative parts for them.

But it’s important to remember: Humans are tool makers — and yet, we’ve always been averse to the very same tools we’ve made, in much the same way art critics were critical of cameras when they were first introduced, because they thought photography took less skill.

My perspective on AI has shifted in the past year — specifically from recognizing the difference between AI as a tool for mass production versus its intentional use in experimental or self-referential art (see: Refik Anadol’s 2022 exhibit at the MoMA). I believe the art world is opening up to the idea of AI, so long as it’s done in a thoughtful way. There’s a difference between an artist using AI to see their vision through versus the computer’s idea of what it should be. The perspective must come from the artist. Even so, there are still those so turned off by AI, they’ll dismiss your work even if they ultimately agree with your core message.

Another major factor that contributed to my change of heart was experimenting with AI in my own practice. To give some context, I’m interested in integrating cultural practices within technology — and not just how to make technology more accessible and equitable, but also the ways we see ancestral, indigenous knowledge reflected in computation.

When I came across the Dogon tribe of Mali in my independent research, I was struck by their ancient understanding of astronomy and the parallels between their knowledge systems and modern technology. At the same time, I also found myself drawn to the craft of indigo dyeing native to West African cultures — particularly how it allowed women to build capital and gain independence. I saw these ideas reflected in modern day, where technology can also create new forms of autonomy and agency. Inspired by the parallel between these worlds, I took archival blueprint images of telescopes and blended them with traditional indigo textiles using AI. In doing so, I combined indigenous ideas with modern computing, exploring how technology can serve as both a bridge to the past and a tool for future-making.

I completely understand the fears surrounding AI — and many of them are valid. It’s already changing industries, and I’ve seen it firsthand in my work as a software engineer. When I ran into a technical problem, I could upload my code into a chatbot, and it would generate a solution in seconds — something that might have taken me days to figure out on my own. And while that shift can feel unsettling, I believe the best approach is to focus on learning how to work with AI rather than just solely fearing it. These tools aren’t truly autonomous; there will always be a need for human oversight, creativity, and critical thinking.

From an engineering perspective, the only thing I can do is learn. It’s not — and it shouldn’t be — competition at this point. It’s not me versus AI; it’s co-creation, the NPC assisting me in my quest. That mindset extends beyond software engineering and into my art practice as well. It’s about bringing my vision, strengths, and values to the work while staying in conversation with the computer. As Nina Simone once said, “An artist’s duty is to reflect the times in which we live.” AI is part of our present reality, and engaging with it thoughtfully allows me to shape its role in my creative process rather than letting it define the work for me.

The reality is, we’re not going back to a world without AI. I understand why people are critical of it, but I also believe that outright rejecting it means missing an opportunity to shape its role in ways that align with our values. AI is already becoming a part of our daily lives, and the best way to ensure these technologies remain accessible and ethical is for all people — especially artists — to be part of the conversation. Engaging with AI doesn’t mean blindly accepting it; it means actively participating in how it evolves.

That begins with digital literacy: understanding how AI actually works, honing critical thinking skills, and doing your own independent research on technology. It also means ensuring diverse perspectives — from artists to underrepresented groups — are part of the conversation so these systems don’t reinforce existing power structures but instead foster inclusive innovation. Otherwise, the future will be shaped by a narrow, homogenous tech elite — a reality we should challenge, not accept.

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Loveseats may have started as a practical perch for 17th-century hoop skirts, but today, they’re the MVP of small-space living. Whether you’re working with a studio apartment, looking to fill an awkward nook, or just prefer a more intimate setup, a two-seater delivers all the style and comfort of a full-sized sofa — without the space-hogging.

And, let’s be real: Couches are an investment, and not everyone has the room (or budget) for a massive sectional. That’s where these compact designs come in most handy. From sculptural statement-makers to cloud-like loungers, deep-seated movie-night havens, and pet-friendly picks that can handle real life, we found the best options out there.

Scroll ahead for the most stylish, coziest, and functional loveseats in our edit — perfect for curling up, working from home, sipping your morning coffee, and beyond.

All linked products are independently selected by our editors. If you purchase any of these products, we may earn a commission.

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