"Do one thing every day that scares you"
My phobia of hairdressers began when I was 14. My hair was down to below my waist, and, being shy, I loved the protective feel of it around my arms and shoulders. I loved the way it flowed behind me when I swam underwater; the way it clung to me when I emerged onto the beach. I felt like a mermaid. And I loved the fact that people found its length remarkable.
My mother said to me one day, "here's some money. Go to the English hairdresser in Corfu town and get your fringe trimmed."
The look on the hairdresser's face when I walked into the salon was one of glee. She had never been offered so much hair to play with. She wasn't at all happy when I asked for a simple fringe trim. She insisted that she should trim the back, too, to tidy it up, so I let her. I couldn't believe it when I stood up afterwards to see six-inch coils of my hair lying on her floor. My head felt light, and what was left of my hair moved strangely as I turned to view it in the mirror and saw that it reached the bottom of my shoulder blades. I felt violated. It was as though she had lopped off a part of my self.
"Oh! It looks lovely!" she trilled.
And so, for 22 years, I didn't visit another hairdresser.
I visited one today.
Actually, I had been to several salons over the past couple of years, thinking that it would be nice to do something about my hippie-geek hair. But every time I stepped into one, I felt overwhelmed. Their catalogues of hairstyles were full of glossy women standing in front of electric fans, with bunches of hair caught up at bizarre angles. It was impossible to tell how the hairstyles would look on a normal person on a normal day, after brushing them in a normal way. And every damn hairdresser looked at my ass-length hair with that psycho gleam in their eyes that said, "when I start cutting that, I'm not going to want to stop".
I tried to find a photograph of a normal woman with a hairstlyle I thought I might like to have. I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for. At the same time, I was checking out small salons, ones less geared towards "trendiness". Whilst waiting for a take-away in Bannockburn, I popped into the nearby salon there, to quiz the hairdresser about styles and prices. When she saw the length of my hair, she looked impressed, but the Psycho Gleam didn't appear. She suggested a basic cut and shaping for £20. That was half the price everyone else was asking. I liked her. I booked an appointment for today.
During a Spring sort-out, I came across an old photo of myself--one taken shortly after my nightmare experience at 14. That hairdresser, bless her, had actually done a nice job. I decided to ask for that hairstyle again.
Last night, I dreamed that my hair had been hacked really short and dyed a permanent orange. I was actually hyperventilating when I went into the salon today. When the hairdresser understood how long it had been for me, and how terrified I was, she was flattered that I had chosen her to help me overcome my phobia. Flattered, and highly amused.
With three swift snips, she lopped off fifteen inches of my hair and handed it to me. I will be posting it to a charity that makes wigs for children with cancer. Then she worked on shaping what was left, all the while chatting and asking me about my life, as hairdressers are wont to do. She was so excited about the change she was making to my life that she stood in her doorway to watch us driving past, so that she could see Bunty's face to find out what he thought of the new me. Bunty likes my new look well enough and thinks it's an improvement, but is completely blasé about the whole thing--as though people have haircuts all the time--as though it's just normal.
Oh, wait. It is.
The 'Before' pictures:
What I feared:
What I hoped for:
What I got:
My mother said to me one day, "here's some money. Go to the English hairdresser in Corfu town and get your fringe trimmed."
The look on the hairdresser's face when I walked into the salon was one of glee. She had never been offered so much hair to play with. She wasn't at all happy when I asked for a simple fringe trim. She insisted that she should trim the back, too, to tidy it up, so I let her. I couldn't believe it when I stood up afterwards to see six-inch coils of my hair lying on her floor. My head felt light, and what was left of my hair moved strangely as I turned to view it in the mirror and saw that it reached the bottom of my shoulder blades. I felt violated. It was as though she had lopped off a part of my self.
"Oh! It looks lovely!" she trilled.
And so, for 22 years, I didn't visit another hairdresser.
I visited one today.
Actually, I had been to several salons over the past couple of years, thinking that it would be nice to do something about my hippie-geek hair. But every time I stepped into one, I felt overwhelmed. Their catalogues of hairstyles were full of glossy women standing in front of electric fans, with bunches of hair caught up at bizarre angles. It was impossible to tell how the hairstyles would look on a normal person on a normal day, after brushing them in a normal way. And every damn hairdresser looked at my ass-length hair with that psycho gleam in their eyes that said, "when I start cutting that, I'm not going to want to stop".
I tried to find a photograph of a normal woman with a hairstlyle I thought I might like to have. I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for. At the same time, I was checking out small salons, ones less geared towards "trendiness". Whilst waiting for a take-away in Bannockburn, I popped into the nearby salon there, to quiz the hairdresser about styles and prices. When she saw the length of my hair, she looked impressed, but the Psycho Gleam didn't appear. She suggested a basic cut and shaping for £20. That was half the price everyone else was asking. I liked her. I booked an appointment for today.
During a Spring sort-out, I came across an old photo of myself--one taken shortly after my nightmare experience at 14. That hairdresser, bless her, had actually done a nice job. I decided to ask for that hairstyle again.
Last night, I dreamed that my hair had been hacked really short and dyed a permanent orange. I was actually hyperventilating when I went into the salon today. When the hairdresser understood how long it had been for me, and how terrified I was, she was flattered that I had chosen her to help me overcome my phobia. Flattered, and highly amused.
With three swift snips, she lopped off fifteen inches of my hair and handed it to me. I will be posting it to a charity that makes wigs for children with cancer. Then she worked on shaping what was left, all the while chatting and asking me about my life, as hairdressers are wont to do. She was so excited about the change she was making to my life that she stood in her doorway to watch us driving past, so that she could see Bunty's face to find out what he thought of the new me. Bunty likes my new look well enough and thinks it's an improvement, but is completely blasé about the whole thing--as though people have haircuts all the time--as though it's just normal.
Oh, wait. It is.
The 'Before' pictures:
What I feared:
What I hoped for:
What I got: