Once I was checked in, my first phone call wasn’t to a hair salon; it was to the most ruthless, aggressive divorce attorney in the city. By noon, I was sitting in a stylist’s chair getting the remaining jagged pieces of my hair shaved down into a very short, chic buzzcut.
It was liberating. My phone started vibrating relentlessly around 1:00 PM. The first text was from Greg: Hey, my card just declined at the golf pro shop. Did the bank flag something? Ten minutes later, another text: Victoria, answer me. My debit card isn’t working either.
The joint account says zero. What is going on? At 1:45 PM, a frantic text from Linda came through: My Amex was declined at the salon in front of everyone! Fix this immediately, you disrespectful brat! I silenced my phone and went back to work.
I stepped into my new corner office, sat behind my desk, and started doing exactly what I was paid to do: direct, manage, and execute. The real fallout happened the next day. Greg came home to find that the locks on the house had been changed.
Since the house was a pre-marital asset entirely in my name, and I had evidence of a physical assault (I had taken photos of my head and the hair on the bed, and filed a police report for domestic battery against Linda), my lawyer moved with lightning speed.
The police were more than happy to escort Greg inside to pack his personal belongings. When Linda found out about the police report, she panicked. She tried to call me, begging me to drop the charges, crying that it was “just a joke” and “family discipline.” The stoic, arrogant woman from the morning before was completely gone, replaced by a terrified older woman facing assault charges and the sudden loss of her monthly allowance.
Greg bombarded me with emails, fluctuating between furious demands and pathetic apologies. He said he didn’t mean what he said, that he was just surprised and spoke without thinking. He begged me to come home so we could talk about it “like adults.” I only ever replied to him once.
“Hair grows back. Bank accounts don’t. Learn to survive.” It took less than six months to finalize the divorce. Without my income, Greg had to move into Linda’s cramped two-bedroom apartment. He was forced to return his leased SUV and actually get a full-time job just to help cover her rent, as the legal fees from her battery charge completely drained what little savings she had.
As for me? I thrived. My buzzcut grew out into a cute pixie style, and my career skyrocketed. I never handed in that resignation letter, but I absolutely handed them a lesson in respect they will never, ever forget.
