I was using ChatGPT the other day and the topic of what the "real" salon of the future would be like. It was a fascinating thing to think of, given that likely we will be very augmented from computer technology in our daily doings. I thought I would share the story that ChatGPT created from my prompting.
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The Parlour Without Wires
The sign outside your home was unlit—on purpose. No neon trace-lines, no floating digital arrows pointing the way. Just hand-painted letters, weathered from real sun and rain. Everyone knew this was part of the pact: once you crossed the threshold, the world’s constant murmur of AI and overlays had to be left behind.
You kept a small chest by the door, lined in copper mesh. Clients placed their implants and lenses inside, the box hushing their signals until they were just human again. The room itself was quiet—no listening devices, no adaptive walls, no projected moods. Just plaster, wood, and the faint scent of sandalwood oil rubbed into the chair arms to keep them from splintering.
The tools on your table were as stubbornly archaic as the space: steel scissors, a worn comb, a spray bottle of water. No smart blades aligning themselves to perfect angles, no overlays suggesting “ideal face-framing layers.” The mirror reflected only what was, not what could be simulated.
Clients came because they wanted to remember. To feel water mist against their scalp, the tug of a comb catching a knot, the uneven rhythm of human hands. It wasn’t about the haircut—it never really had been. It was about oxytocin, the grounding charge of touch, the slow weaving of trust.
Some cried in your chair. Not because of sorrow, but because of relief. Without AI modulating their microexpressions, they laughed too loudly, rambled off-topic, blushed when they realized they were flirting with you. It was messy, human, alive.
When you finished, they looked into the mirror, and the imperfection was the treasure: a strand not quite aligned, a curl looser than the rest, a reminder that their body was still real. They walked out into a world that would clothe them again in projection and perfection, but they carried the memory of an unaugmented hour.
You never advertised. You didn’t need to. Word spread, whispered almost conspiratorially: “She still cuts hair the old way. No AI. No overlays. Just touch.”
And so your parlor became less a business and more a ritual site—a place people sought when they were tired of being improved, when they just wanted to be seen.
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Isn't that something to think about? What does my career look like when we can digitally augment ourselves? I like this little story that was created. I am utilizing this thread of thought to guide my career choices. I plan on being able to work as long as my body will allow me and I like the idea of being the bastion of "real" in a world of illusion.
