a hair story

I am haunted by that ungodly 90s hair flip. It keeps me up at night, thinking about how the ends of my hair can flip up and out while the rest of my hair stays straight. Even when I love my hair, I hate it. It's 2 a.m. and I'm laying awake in a dark room thinking about the damage done by a new haircut. I left the salon with my hair mostly straightened, yet unnaturally flipped out at the ends. Think Sarah Michele Gellar in the 90s or the infamous Rachel Green haircut. The anxiety of it all was just too much. Have I ever even liked a haircut? The answer is unclear. After I’ve jumped out of bed and straightened my newly shortened hair I can decide which parts I need to take the scissor to in order to right all the wrongs my hair has caused me. Then I can sleep soundly while my subconscious ruminates on the cathartic, but most likely horrifying, trim I will give myself in the morning. I’ll fix it while probably making it worse, but at least I know what I’m dealing with now.

After I’ve done my share with the dull hair shears I stole from my father, I am less than pleased. I’m not displeased, but I’m definitely not happy about the newest notches in this stuff that grows out of my head. It is somehow better and worse. The part where I get to contribute to my own haircut is extremely satisfying, but the result is less ‘just slept in cool’ and more ‘I let my four year old neighbor go to town on my hair’. Two days of panic attacks and a few more snips here and there, and I find myself sitting in the chair of the stylist who cut my hair when I was a child. A cool twenty minutes later and I’m watching my new haircut air dry while my mom gets her roots colored. We took one car to be more environmentally conscious. I already feel more like myself.