Chrisstylistwithapast

Photos I use will only be drawn from my personal archives.
Due to law, I will not be using any images of my clients.

However, any other images that I do use are my own personal property.
This is my journal.
This is my memory.

Therefore, I cannot be asked to take them down.
They are not shared for exploitation or gain,
but as part of a personal recollection—a record of a life lived in this craft.

The memories are mine.
The images are mine.
The story is mine.

Stepping into the new world and the new space and time with AI,
I am now fully going to incorporate AI as my interpreter.

The linguistics of AI are better than mine,
and the interpretation of the idea still remains the same—
but now, in an elevated style.

This is not a surrender of my voice.
This is a collaboration.
A merging of memory and modernity.
The feeling remains mine. The thoughts remain mine.
But the language will carry further—sharper, clearer, deeper.

I walk forward with an old soul and new tools.
The story continues.

So here I am. I'm about to start reviewing my life on an open forum with names redacted by law, yet I can remember and honor those that have journeyed with me. This is not going to be a time-logged journey. This will be a memory-sparked journey.

Memories of well-known heels clicking on the tiles as they walk into the salon.
Memories of scents of perfumes wafting through the salon.
Memories of brushes that I've used and equipment that have served us over the years.

This is personal memory.
If you recognize yourself in any of the characters, that'll be perfect.
If you recognize one of the other clients in any of the characters, then you'd know that they have made a deep connection to me and are now fully ingrained in my memory.

Journey with me.

As I said, this is not going to be a chronological study of my journey, but just merely memories, random memories, jotted down.

I’m sitting here, smoke curling into the quiet, thinking back on the road I’ve walked behind the chair. All those hours—countless, really—spent with scissors in hand and stories unraveling in front of me. The laughter, the tears, the moods I brought with me and the moods that walked in and sat down.

Faces flash through my mind—some from the very beginning of my journey. The ones who took a chance on me when I was still finding my way, still learning the rhythm of the craft. And somehow, they still find their way to my chair, even now. We’ve grown older together, changed, softened in some places, sharpened in others.

Every snip of the scissors carries a thousand echoes. Jokes shared, lives changed, losses grieved, milestones celebrated. My hands have held more than hair—they’ve held trust, secrets, joy, pain. That chair has seen it all.

It’s been a marvellous journey. Not perfect, not always easy, but honest. Real. And mine.