Yesterday I went for a haircut. A seemingly innocuous activity, it is fraught with peril for some women. I am one of them.My usual routine is: Suffer through haircut and blow-drying, tell stylist it looks great, curse in the car on the way home where I get into the shower immediately and wash out all the "product" I asked not to have put in. Avoid all mirrors for at least three days. It's silly, really, but it happens so often that my husband is ready for it. Yesterday he called right after my appointment for a mood check. I said "I hate it." He said, "Well, you're not crying so it must not be too bad."
Since my early years, going to a hair salon has caused me more anxiety than going to the dentist since that's over and done with once you leave the office but the hair thing stays with you for months. One time when I was in 7th grade, my mother gave me a permanent and I missed three weeks of school. (That must have been when they studied all the wars.) After much reflection, I finally figured out that the underlying problem lies with the expectations of the people involved. For me, the haircut is a necessary evil, like giving the cats their flea medication or making a turkey at Thanksgiving. But for the stylist, my head is an opportunity--a blank canvas, offering the stylist a chance for self-expression. Thus, my carefully enunciated instructions are pushed aside once the stylist's inner Edward Scissorhands awakens. Yesterday was no exception. Looking at the bright side, at least one of us had fun.
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