I Built a Queer Sanctuary—and Then I Let It Go

I may not be doing hair anymore.

And yeah, I miss my studio sometimes—a lot, actually. Especially now that it’s officially been passed on as of a week ago. Still so, so new. That space wasn’t just where I worked—it was a living, breathing reflection of everything I had fought to become. I built it right in the heart of Palm Springs, but more than that, I built it from my heart.

For three years, it was my sanctuary, my art studio, my queer little creative cave where every inch was intentional—from the little moments to the art on the walls to the way the mirror reflected you back with love instead of judgment. It was where I got to create freely, to hold space for others, and to finally see my own vision come to life without apology.

I had dream clients, a wild vision, and the kind of pride that made my younger self feel seen—not just as a stylist, but as a queer, creative, resilient-as-hell human who made something out of nothing and dared to take up space doing it.

But about a year in, my health began to unravel—and with it, so did my ability to show up in the way I wanted to. Cutting hair became physically painful. Consistency was nearly impossible. The spark I used to feel while creating? Buried under flares, fatigue, and fear of letting people down.

Still, I was lucky. During that time, I was mentored by someone who’d shaped my career from the beginning—Tabatha Coffey, the internationally known hairstylist, author, and straight-shooting business guru you might recognize from Bravo’s Tabatha’s Salon Takeover. She reminded me of something most of us forget in a world built on grind: the word “should” is a trap. A dirty word. A lie dressed as duty.

For most of my career, I was “should-ing” myself into every version of success that wasn’t actually mine. I played the part so well I almost convinced myself it was real. Smiled when I was in pain. Nodded through overwhelm. Molded myself into whatever shape made other people comfortable—professional enough, palatable enough, "together" enough.

I was always on. Always managing the room. Reading between the lines. Calculating every response, every expression, every pause. I was the cool, calm, creative one—even when my body was screaming and my brain was spinning and my soul was cracking from the effort of holding it all together.

Even when I owned shops. Even when I was getting praise. Even when I felt proud… I wasn’t fully me.

Looking back, I think this is what the “anchor” was all about—what Tabatha kept telling me I didn’t have placed. At the time, I thought I understood her. Sometimes I’d even get annoyed when she’d say, “Georgia! You need to anchor yourself. You need to really figure out your why.”

And I’d nod along, so sure I got it. That I had it.
But I didn’t.

Because what she was talking about… was this.
This internal dissonance.
This lifelong dance of pretending, of contorting, of being almost-but-not-quite.

I couldn’t anchor myself because being fully me didn’t feel safe.
Because me was messy. Sensitive. Queer. Neurodivergent. Sick. Complex.
And for a long time, I believed that wasn’t allowed.

How could it be?

I’ve always had to be on. I’ve always had to take care of myself. I’ve always had to know my next step before I took the first one.

That kind of hyper-vigilance doesn’t come out of nowhere—it comes from trauma.

From a childhood where I didn’t always know where my next meal was coming from. Where hot water wasn’t guaranteed. Where eviction notices showed up like clockwork. Where I didn’t know if I’d come home to an emotionally shut-down mother or a drunk, angry father. Where putting my little sisters to bed came before putting myself to bed—before even thinking about what I needed.

I never had a sense of safety. And over time, I got used to that.
Because when it’s all you know, you learn to make it normal.

So I kept performing. Kept shrinking. Kept chasing the version of success I thought I was supposed to want.
And it nearly broke me.

But this studio? This one was different.

This space was unapologetically queer, radically welcoming, and deeply rooted in being a mirror—not just a salon. I wasn’t just cutting hair; I was creating a place where people could see themselves clearly, sometimes for the first time. Where queerness wasn’t tolerated—it was celebrated. Where you didn’t need 50 products and 5 hot tools to feel beautiful. You already were.

And it wasn’t just a space for my clients.
It was a space for us.

For queer artists to work, thrive, and build something together without fear of toning it down. That’s what I’ll miss the most. Not the scissors or the styling—the sanctuary.

I feel like I finally built what I always needed… and just as I had it in my hands, my body said, “Not like this.”

But here’s what’s different this time.

When I had my old barbershop, I left clawing and scrambling, convinced I owed everyone everything. I masked. I people-pleased. I “should-ed” myself to the bone trying to hold it all together for everyone else—even when it broke me.

This time, I chose me.

And maybe some people won’t understand that. Maybe they’ll feel left behind. Maybe they’ll feel hurt, or confused, or even disappointed.

And I get that. I really do.

When someone you care about shifts direction—especially when they’ve always shown up, always held space, always put others first—it can feel like something’s been taken from you. Like a door closed without warning. Like you didn’t get a chance to prepare.

But this shift didn’t come suddenly.
It came from years of quiet unraveling.
Of learning to hear the difference between guilt and truth.

(And trust me, I was raised Catholic—I know guilt. Intimately. We go way back.)

This time, I didn’t move from guilt—I moved from embodiment.
From clarity.
From the deep knowing of what my body and spirit needed, even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else.

And I know that can be hard to sit with.
But I also know: sometimes what feels like an ending to others is a necessary beginning for the person living it.

Because it’s not just my responsibility to keep queer spaces—it’s also my responsibility to know when to let them go.

And I’m not talking about letting them disappear—but letting them evolve.
To become stepping stones for the next queer kid.
The next stylist.
The next wild-hearted artist who needs proof it can be done.
Who needs someone to say:

You’re allowed to do this your way.
You’re allowed to walk away.
You’re allowed to be the thing you never saw.

That’s the real magic.

Because like Tabatha says: it’s never really about the hair.
It’s always been something more.

Hair was just the medium.

What I really loved—what lit me up—was being the connection point. The mirror. The moment where someone looked at themselves differently—maybe for the first time.

For someone to feel seen in their fullness. To feel safe in their softness or their edge or their weirdness.
To catch a glimpse of the version of themselves they always dreamed of becoming and suddenly realize:
“Wait… I can actually be that. I already am.”

That was the magic.
Not the cut. Not the color. Not the hair pieces.
It was the self-recognition.
The self-reclaiming.
The quiet alchemy of someone stepping into themselves and knowing they didn’t have to ask permission.

And now? I’m grieving that space.
Not because I failed.
But because I didn’t.

I created something real. Something bold.
Something I would’ve killed to walk into when I was younger.

And I ended it without a single “should.”

I ended it because my body finally screamed loud enough to drown out the guilt.
Because masking every day was starting to undo me.
Because this next chapter—this healing era—needs me whole.

The truth is, I never really loved the industry side of hair.

Not the fast fashion of it all—the chasing trends that change every five minutes to keep people insecure and spending.
Not the corporate BS—where artistry gets buried under sales quotas, commission structures, and endless pressure to upsell.
Not the sexism—where male barbers are seen as skilled and edgy, while female barbers are expected to smile, serve, and stay small.
Not the product obsession—wall-to-wall shelves of things no one actually needs, pushed by companies that profit off convincing people they’re not enough without them.
And definitely not the waste—the plastic, the chemicals, the constant consumption, the environmental toll no one wants to talk about because it gets in the way of the next influencer launch.

Behind the glam and glow-ups, there’s a lot of burnout. A lot of exploitation. A lot of people suffering quietly to keep the illusion going.

And I just can’t keep pretending that part was beautiful.

I always called myself a minimalist hairdresser for a reason: you don’t need a million things to look good. You just need to work with what you already are.
That was always the art form to me.

But beyond the bullshit and burnout, there was beauty.
Real beauty.
In the connections. In the creativity. In the moments of collaboration that reminded me why I started in the first place.

Some of the smartest, weirdest, most brilliant people I’ve ever met came from this industry.
Artists. Healers. Visionaries.
People who could tell you your life story just by how you wear your bangs. Stylists who became therapists. Colorists who became chemists. Barbers who became activists.

And when we were left alone to create—really create—there was pure magic.
Campaigns that meant something.
Ideas that shook things up.
Queer joy in front of and behind the lens.

I’ve been part of shoots and shows and projects that made me feel, that made people think, that made it clear this industry doesn’t have to be hollow—it just has to be reclaimed.

Those were the moments that kept me in it.
That reminded me: it’s not the industry I ever loved—it was the people.

And the people? They made it worth it.

But looking back, the happiest I ever was? I was creating. Drawing. Writing. Dreaming. Building weird little worlds in my head and hoping one day I could live in them.

So now?
That’s what I’m going to do.
I’m going to live in them.

This last week has been emotional whiplash. I cried in my car under the Orange Moon the other night—Sáuihé:guldáu P’ahy, as my grandmother called it. She always said it meant something was awakening, something was shifting. That our ancestors were trying to tell us: it’s time.

So I’m listening.

I don’t know exactly what comes next—but I know what doesn’t.
I’m not doing this for a buck.
I’m not doing it to meet someone’s expectations.
I’m not doing it because I “should.”

I’m doing it because I have to.
Because my body asked.
Because my spirit demanded.
Because this time, I’m choosing myself without apology.

So if things start to look a little different… if what you see from me feels off-brand, offbeat, or a little more unfiltered than you’re used to—embrace it.
Because I am.

It might feel weird. It might make you uncomfortable. It might not be what you expected.

But that’s the beauty of coming home to yourself.
Of putting yourself first.
Of finally—finally—unmasking.

Maybe I’ll be a little more unhinged.
(Okay, let’s be real—I’ve always been a little unhinged.)
The difference is: now I’m not hiding it.

Take it or leave it.

Welcome to my healing era.

Where I finally do for me what I’ve spent a lifetime doing for everyone else:

Holding space.
Speaking truth.
Offering care.
Loving deeper.
Honoring and healing my younger self.

And seeing myself—
Not as a fixer.
Not as a mask.
Not as a curated version of who I thought I had to be.

But as the whole damn thing.

Dáál èm áñ! (Let’s go!)