Sunday

weaslaphobia

I made an appointment to get my hair cut after work this Friday. It's been two years since I last had my hair "professionally" cut, and my ends are broken and sad. My hair can only get to a certain length before I realize just how long it is and I become consumed with an overwhelming desire to cut it all off. I'm convinced that, if left unchecked, my hair will engulf everything around it, and only pain and suffering would remain. I once tried to hide illegal aliens in my locks for sanctuary, only to find that the hair has no powers for good, only for evil, and they inevitably starved to death. I thought it'd be great; free tacos whenever I wanted, my own personal mariachi, and churros for all my friends.. but instead I'm now a convicted felon. And that decomp smell? It takes months to get rid of.



The last time I had my hair cut by what the salon referred to as a "styling professional", I walked in to get a pixie cut and walked out with something resembling hockey helmet hair. By the time a month had past, the back of my hair was heading to mullet town and there was me in the bathroom every weekend, armed with a secondary mirror and a pair of scissors, trying to keep the monstrosity at bay, until it grew out long enough that I could make it look somewhat human, and less like I let my mother cut my hair with her lawnmower.



My stylist was convinced that she had created a masterpiece out of my head and that I was sure to be noticed. I give her props on taking pride in her work, and, not wanting to be rude and offend an ARTEEST, I politely paid her with tip, thanked her, and then bought a hat when I was sure she couldn't see me from the shop window. I sure was noticed, alright. I've always had a problem going to stylists and subsequently being told that I don't really know what I want, and that I should try (insert trendy hair style here) because they think it would look FAR better on me than what *I* had in mind. This NEVER goes over well.



Most people develop normal phobias. Spiders, clowns, produce clerks. I developed a phobia of hair dressers. They're convinced they can transform me into the belle of the ball and will do anything they can to talk me out of what I want, so that they can experiment with my head and get paid for it. Either they're secretly super heroes, sent to protect the planet from the impending threat of my hair, or they're assholes.



They'll be the first to go when my hair swallows the earth whole.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Never have I read such a reflection of my life long dilemma! I have just spent the night with mirror and scizzors... again. The bizarre thing is I push myself to go to the hairdresser and now have a really understanding one who is patient enough to take 4 appointments to sculpt one haircut to get what I want rather than rush it in one go to acheive their style goal for me. I have finally gone from long brown locks to short blonde and spikey!
The thing I have realised is I have for my hair the equivalent of dysmorphia that people have for their bodies. How I feel about my hair is determined by how I feel about myself, my looks, my femininity, my life and the world around me... and I am an emotional creature who is, on most days, at odds with the world! I hope one day I will find inner peace of mind... and an immediate love of my hair!
I wish you luck and thank you immensely.
xFleur (England)