A few weeks ago, I embarked on my first professional beauty mission, a trip to a salon for a new hair treatment and a blowout. I was excited. Before that, my salon visits were strictly on an as-needed basis, where I asked for the bare minimum: a trim, no blow-dry, no products or highlights of any kind. Now, at 22, I was about to live out a sliver of my Devil Wears Prada fantasies.
My idea of success was formed in large part by watching that movie an inappropriate number of times. I envisioned adulthood as walking through the big glass front doors of an office. I never imagined what existed beyond those doors but assumed it would be the kind of place where I would have to look fabulous.
