Haircuts give me anxiety.

Before continuing, let me caveat with some of the positives in the whole experience. First, no more split ends. I can run my fingers through my hair without hitting a single snag. It’s delightful. Second, someone else styles my hair, so for at least one glorious moment it looks great. Third, someone else washes my hair, which is second only to pedicures and massages on my list of Relaxing Things.

These positives come with a price though. Let’s talk about the fact that I get nervous when making conversation with people I don’t know, and how I see my hairdresser maybe twice a year, so I’m lucky if she even recognizes me. Put that in the background of my being stuck in a chair with nothing to do but stare at the mirror wondering if I can remember how many kids she has or if I should say something about anything or if I can get away with just staying quiet and awkward for the next hour.

Of course I’m also getting my hair cut. So there’s the anxiety over ensuing change compounded with the fact that I need to communicate to a relative stranger what I actually, really and truly, want. More than once.

“Two inches, please. And maybe layers?”

“Is that two inches?”

*silence while I inwardly squirm and wonder what kind of yardstick hairstylists keep handy for people like me*

I can step back and realize that these fears are about as rational as someone not liking The Lord of the Rings, but this doesn’t seem to stop the feelings from rising. Here’s to the beautiful 6-12 months till I work up the time and courage to go back to the salon.


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