When you have a relationship with someone for a long time, letting go can be tough.
Finding the words, standing by your feelings, doing what you think is right -- the dumper has to search for corrects way to do it and the courage to follow through.
Luckily, Jodyne L. Speyer figured out the many, many ways to break it off with just about anyone, from your best friend to your hairdresser, and is sharing her dumping advice in her book "Dump 'Em."
Read an excerpt of the book below and then check out more excerpts at the "Good Morning America" Library.
Signs It's Time to Dump Your Hairdresser
Your smock is covered in dandruff . . . and it's not yours.
With each snip of her scissors, she grunts like a female tennis player.
She's still stuck in the '80s. Who wants a perm?
When you walk in, her last appointment is leaving in tears.
You go in for a bang trim and leave missing an eyebrow.
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Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
While attending college in New York City, I got my hair cut at a trendy little boutique in the East Village. My hairdresser, Gina, was a plain Jane from Staten Island, and that was exactly what I liked about her. Unlike a lot of my previous hairstylists—who pretended to listen while they plotted to give me (usually successfully) the haircut they wanted—Gina actually listened to me and gave me the cut I asked for—which is why I was devastated when she told me that she was leaving for six months to go on a spirit ual journey to India.
Within days of returning from her trip, I made an appointment at her apartment. Graduation was coming up and I wanted a new look. I raced up her stairwell two steps at a time, excited for the hairstyle that would take me to the next stage of my life: my career.
As I reached the top of her staircase, I nearly choked on the heavy cloud of incense smoke that invaded my lungs. The smell of Nag Champa overwhelmed me. Waving it away, I pushed open Gina's front door and entered what I can only describe as some kind of medieval dungeon fi lled with giant candelabras, enormous crosses, leering gargoyles, and black sheets draped over huge gothic columns. I should have turned around and left then; the smell of incense makes me want to vomit (I already had, just a tiny bit). Not to mention that goth scares me. It was so dark that I could barely see my feet—and if I couldn't see, how would Gina be able to cut my hair?
"Hello?" I shouted. Out of the darkness came Gina, fully covered in piercings, hair in long dreads, and wearing a black, freefl owing, Stevie Nicks–style dress. Who was this woman? This was not my Gina from Staten Island—Coney Island, perhaps.
What exactly did they teach her in that ashram? She made her move toward me.
"Jodyne! My queen! At last! I've waited my whole life for you!" Then she broke into a Mary J. Blige song. "My life. My life. My life. In the sunshine. If you look at my life, and see what I've seen." India had apparently turned Gina into a hippie goth—a gippie?—but that still didn't explain why she was singing Mary J. Blige to me. "Let's go, mamma!" she said as she grabbed my hand and led me to her sink.