The Hairdresser's Curse

I have a question for all the women out there (and men, I am not a sexist after all): Does anyone of you enjoy going to the hairdresser's? If you do, give me your hairdresser's name because I could do with a good hairdresser. And no, I also love the massaging part where I am lying, completely exposed to the other people there, in one of these sinks, drooling slightly because the woman massaging my temples is such a skilled masseur I would recommend she change her job. I also don't mind the fuss being made about me as a customer (Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee? A virgin?); however, I nearly exclusively regret the decision frequenting the hairdresser's the minute I see the result. I can only recall two times I ever went out of the hairdresser's truly content. The first time was when I had messed up my hair with the wrong colour so boldly and badly that anything which wasn't THAT was better; secondly, when I got a perm (yes, I am the only person who feels more confident with a perm on her head, deal with it). The problem, however, is that I am never sure whether all hairdressers suck or whether I am simply incapable to impart what I really want, which makes me never say that I don't like it but nod politely, go home, wash my hair and cry. 
But now context. Of course I didn't wake up and decided to rant on hairdressers, no, there is a long backstory to it. Well, actually, it's short. I went to the hairdressers. 
Yesterday, I was bored enough and my salary had just been transferred to my account (a lethal mixture for someone like me) and I decided it was time to visit the hairdresser's. When I arrived at the highly over-priced saloon I usually frequent (and with usually I mean once a year at most), she offered my an appointment in just twenty minutes (which was another mistake I made, I should have mentally prepared beforehand). Eager to get something done, I agreed and was swished off to a comfy leather chair where a spotty, young (and clearly gay) man offered me something to drink and brought me trashy magazines. Alright, one thing I LOVE about hairdressers are the magazines. You will always feel like an idiot reading trashy magazines anywhere else, but at the hairdresser's they expect you to read them and so I delved into a story of Amal and George Clooney's twins and was soon greeted by a nice woman who was about to ruin my hair. 
Alright, alright, my hair was rubbish before too. I had a perm growing out and the ends were much blonder than the rest and it needed trimming desperately, but it finally had the length I feel good about and now I look like a really ugly boy who hasn't had a good haircut in ages. Seriously, check the pic...
Anyway, I told her I wanted the ENDS gone and some layers cut in and in my mind there were a couple of things I thought but didn't say but should have said like, don't thin out my hair, it's thin enough as it is; don't make it shorter at the front than at the back as I hardly have a chin as it is and need hair to shape my face to give at least the illusion. Weeeeell, I don't know if she's ever heard of ends, but she cut off nearly half my hair AND she thinned it out and cut it shorter at the front than at the back...so, complete mess-up. Now, the question is: is it my fault? I know people then tell you "Why didn't you just say stop?" Well, good question. Firstly, I was reading; secondly, when I go to the hairdresser's I become paralyzed as soon as I have imparted what I would like and am incapable to interfere. It is a bit as if the hairdresser is like a mechanical clock which, once wound up, ticks and tocks down but cannot be stopped anymore or changed. Or like a satellite which is shot into space and has to circle on its orbit, not matter what. The second problem is that every hairdresser wants to make you stylish and if there is one thing I am not, it's stylish regarding my hair. I want to have a more romantic and natural hairstyle, but no hairdresser seems to understand that, they all want to turn me into a super-cool, stylish, short-haired person. She then "styled" my hair if you can call it like that - I looked like Donald Trump - or an Emo boy who tries to hide his spotty forehead with his hair. In short, I looked awful and don't ask me why I couldn't at least ask her to restyle my hair, because I have no fucking clue. So halfway smiling and inwardly crying, I paid (50 fucking bucks) and firstly dishevelled her hairstyle so I could leave the hairdresser's without people pointing at me, went home, cried openly and washed my hair. Now, as soon as I had styled it myself, it was somewhat OK and I think I will be able to pull it off until it regrows, but I have decided I will never ever go to the hairdresser's again and cut my ends myself, because, seriously, it can't be worse than what I looked when I left the hairdresser's...but look for yourself and let me know what you think... (left is now; right was before).