I did not come to this country without knowing my profession. I want to state this clearly, because most stories are built around learning from zero. My story, however, began with having to learn again despite already knowing.
I learned the hairdressing profession during the years I lived in Rize, through eight years of formal education. Hair care, cutting, colouring, and the theoretical side of the profession… At the end of this process, I became not only a practitioner but also an educator. I progressed to obtaining a master instructor certificate and began my career by teaching the profession. In other words, for many years I did not only work; I trained others, guided them, and carried responsibility.
Later, I opened my own salon in Istanbul. It was a large, well-organised salon built with dedication and effort. That salon was not merely a workplace; it was the tangible result of years of accumulation, risks taken, and hard work. Every corner carried a decision, a struggle, and courage.
Closing that salon to come to the UK was not just a physical move; it meant consciously putting the life I had built on hold.
During that period, I was professionally very active. The year I opened my salon, I received a significant offer from the stage world. I was invited to do Sibel Can’s hair, but I could not accept the offer because my application process for the UK had already begun. My life was about to change direction, and some doors remained closed just as they were about to open.
At the same time, I took part in stage shows representing Istanbul together with fellow hairdressers.
We performed hair shows at major events, represented Istanbul on stage, and received awards through these works. The profession did not exist only inside the salon; it existed on stage, in projects, and in production.
I was also invited to television programmes. Out of nearly five thousand hairdressers, I was
selected and invited as a guest to television programmes three times. My profession was being spoken about, my work was visible. I was not only someone who worked, but someone who produced, spoke, and represented.
In addition to this, I was actively working in radio. I had an agreement with Radyo T, and my radio programmes were continuing regularly. Being behind the microphone, speaking, sharing, connecting with people… This was also a strong part of my life.
Social responsibility projects were another important part of this period. In Istanbul, I was the person who initiated the first organisation to provide hair care services for elderly people living in nursing homes. I brought hairdresser colleagues together, formed teams, held meetings with the Chamber of Hairdressers, and brought this project to life. The second planned organisation was to take responsibility for the hair care of children in children’s homes. However, because my application process for the UK had already begun, I was unable to participate in this second project.
In short, my social circle in Istanbul and in Turkey was deep-rooted, wide, and very active. Not only professionally, but also socially, culturally, and socially, I was fully engaged with life. I had a visible life — one that spoke, produced, organised, and connected.
And it was from the very centre of this intensity, from such an active and social life, that I came to the UK.
When I arrived here, what I felt was this: it was as if I had been dropped into the middle of the sea from a ship.
Suddenly, silence began. There were no familiar voices. No familiar crowds. The microphones went silent, the stages closed, and the projects stopped. And in the middle of all this, I began working under others once again.
The hardest part for me in the UK was not the profession itself. The hardest part was working under others despite knowing.
Being in a listening position after having been a master… Being the implementer after having been the decision-maker… Knowing something is wrong, yet remaining silent…
This was a process that tested not my profession, but my ego, my patience, and my commitment to my goals.
During this time, I was dealing with two things at once. On one side were documents, paperwork, invoices, applications… On the other side, learning to restrain myself, not to rush, and to adapt to the rhythm of the system.
In this country, you quickly learn one thing: you must not lose any document. Every invoice, every receipt, every piece of paper you receive has meaning. Saying “my matter is urgent” changes nothing. There is no culture of favouritism, privilege, or pulling strings.
A date is given to you. And you wait for that date.
Waiting is one of the harshest yet most instructive lessons of this country. You do not decide when you will move forward. The system sets its own pace, and you must adapt to it.
During this process, while working under others, I learned not to react to everything. I learned that I could not slam the door and leave whenever I felt hurt… Because I had goals. And some goals are chosen over momentary comfort.
Perhaps the hardest lesson I learned was this: learning to say “yes,” “okay,” and “fine” to people I once thought I would not even greet if I passed them on the street. I did this not because I lost myself, but so that I could rebuild my own place when the time came.
This country did not teach me hairdressing. I already knew it. But it taught me patience.
Patience is not simply waiting. Patience is being able to remain silent despite knowing. Patience is not reacting immediately when you see something wrong. Patience is stepping back today so that you can stand in the right place tomorrow.
Looking back today, I can see more clearly how this period reshaped me. Sometimes, moving forward does not require speeding up. Sometimes, it requires stopping, observing, and waiting.
This piece is the story of that waiting period. And within this series, it is one of the quietest yet most instructive stops.
By Neşe Özdemir
