My Thing About Haircuts

I’ve noticed I have a thing about haircuts. I despise them.

With my current style, two weeks is the maximum I can allow it to grow before I must have it cut. To be honest, even 14 days is a stretch. I don’t exactly know why I dislike it so much, but I think it has something to do with my never knowing what exactly I’m supposed to focus on throughout the process. Should I hold eye contact with my reflection in the mirror, or should I watch the stylist at work so as to ensure I get the cut I’m after? Am I expected to ignore the conversation between the crotchety man and the stylist beside me as she casually notes she’s from Mexico and misses her family, followed by his growling remarks about how terrible the crime, the gangs, and the shootings are there? Should I at least make eyes back at my stylist in silent acknowledgement that this man has utterly missed the point, even if it means revealing we were both eavesdropping?

Sometimes I’m alright at making conversation with the stylist, but I still feel awkward sitting there twiddling my thumbs with nothing to do but wait for it to be over. I’m uneasy with the expectation that I simply sit there, my own blank expression staring back at me, multiplying my apparent bewilderment by 100%, as someone I’ve never met takes a pair of sharp blades to my scalp as if it were a stubborn garden hedge rather than an area of my body quite close to my face and ears.

It’s worse than a trip to the dentist. I enjoy those.

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