Dear readers, do any of you remember the very first thing in this world that you hated with all your might? The thing that... the very thought of it made you cringe with horror and try to find an escape? I remember mine...
I hate having my hair cut.
It inspires a special anxiety in me that I'm not really sure I can describe here. I discovered this at a very young age... well before school. It is something that has plagued my thoughts since I realized that I even had thoughts of my own.
It all started when I was a young boy...
My grandfather (who most of my life, and still to this day, has kept his hair trimmed almost to his skull in a military type haircut) would take me to this old man barber in a town called Smithers. This man was called "O'Brien". He had a little shop on the front street of town with the little spinning red and white "I cut hair!" thing, and his shop was where all the old men would hang out and discuss old man things.
This is where my anxiety begins.
The first problem was straight awkwardness and discomfort. I was never sure what to do with myself as a child while these men discussed things that I didn't understand. Politics and the like. So I would tend to feel like my hands and feet had no rightful place. I sat there thinking so hard on what would be the most "casual" position for me to sit. What would make me the least conspicuous? How can I not be noticed?
But the problem with that... which is a lesson I've learned over and over and over my entire life... is that trying not to be noticed is the surest way to attract attention.
So I would sit there. Enduring their small talk, and the occasional piece of conversation would be directed toward me, until finally the other patrons who were there before us would leave, and it would be my turn to go under the blade.
The actual cutting with the scissors never bothered me. Though I do recall he accidentally cut my ear once... just a bit... nothing serious. This did not scare my young child mind one bit. But let me tell you what did folks.
That damn buzzing thing they use on the back of your neck.
To this day I have no fucking idea what the thing is actually called. As a child I simply called it "the buzzer". It haunted my dreams. Like some lurking evil Satan machine that had come to devour the back of my head. I had to be physically calmed while it was active.
I HATED that fucking buzzer. And it hated me. And so this went on through my very early years.
Eventually I grew out of my paralyzing fear of the buzzer, In fact I got to the point where the actual hair cutting action didn't bother me at all. Once I get into that chair everything is fine. But in its place the awkwardness and fear grew rampant. The terror of sitting in the waiting area with four or five strangers... Everyone flipping through magazines they don't care about, and all the while I'm wondering "WHAT DO I DO WITH MY HANDS!!?!?!? DEAR GOD WHERE SHOULD MY FEET BE!?!?!"
This feeling finally caused me to attempt to renounce hair cutting all together.
I had always wanted to grow my hair long... And this was no fashion statement. During my teenage years people probably saw me and thought "Oh, this guy plays guitar, and he has long hair. This is typical and it is obviously because he is a "rocker"". No. It had nothing to do with the amount of rocking that I was doing, ladies and gentlemen. It was just pure, good old fashioned social anxiety and fear.
See, my plan was that if my hair was long, sure it would just keep getting longer, but I could just keep tying it back and ignore it. When it would finally get to the point that it was ridiculously long I would break down and go into the place and be like "clean this up, shoulder length please." Problem solved right? Do I give a fuck if people say "oh look at you with your girly long hair!"?
Fuck no I don't.
So during my early teens, I begged my parents to let me grow my hair long. They always said "No. you need to get your hair cut." But they didn't really always have time to take me. So I would never press the issue. And so my hair would grow unkempt for long periods of time with nothing to keep it in check. It would become long in the front and even longer in the back. It looked like a mullet that forgot it was supposed to be short on top. But I just kept ignoring it. Sure I looked like a circus freak... but at least I didn't have to sit in that room... Waiting with those people.
And so my parents would have to put it off and put it off. I would start planning haircuts ahead of time. I would feign sickness on my mom's day off, because I knew that if I didn't act too sick, she may take me to get my hair cut at an odd hour during the day when it was likely that nobody would be there waiting.
And so this went on for years.
The only way I saw to escape this cycle was to have someone cut my hair to where it was all growing out one length, let it grow, and just start tying it back. My hair always grew ridiculously fast, but once it gets out to the "long" stage it seems to slow to a more manageable stage.
So around the time I was sixteen or so and had my own car and a bit of my own money... I braved the scissors... one... last... time... (for a little while anyway.)
So I finally let it grow long. And my parents scowled for a while and then completely ceased to give a shit. And grow long it did. For almost 10 years I kept it that way. Getting a haircut maybe twice a year.
It was glorious.
But somewhere along the line... with no real catalyst to the decision, I unwisely decided to cut it short.
"I need a change." I thought.
Phsshhh change. And for what? What possible purpose would this serve. None my dear readers. None.
But I did it anyway... I cut it short. And the beast of my rapid growth hair was awakened. So I had to start thinking about haircuts every few months. I discovered that the fear never really went away. It has just been dormant.
Now when my hair gets to that point of really badly needing cut... I have to think about it for a few days beforehand... kind of work myself up to it. Then for a few days after that, I find myself literally stalking the barber. I drive by the shop and casually glance inside to see how many people are waiting and try to decide if I can deal with being in there with them.
Eventually after a couple days of this freakish ritual, I will finally decide to go in. Usually I will be noticed, and picked up relatively soon. The hair will be cut and all the anxiety will fade for another few months.
But recently I had a disturbing experience that has further set me back. I talked myself into entering the den of the beast... I sat down in the waiting area with nobody else waiting. "This is perfect" I thought "They'll pick me up fast and I wont even have to be here long."
I thought I had it all figured out.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. For some reason I was completely ignored. Everyone there simply went about their business like there wasn't even a customer sitting there. I thought "well he must be busy with cleanup or something." so I waited, and waited... and waited.
Nothing. It had finally happened. I had become too inconspicuous.
When it got to the point that I decided they were never going to acknowledge me even if I sat there until our parent star entered it's red giant phase, I discovered that I had a new problem. "How do I leave here without instantly calling uncomfortable attention to myself?" There was a loud bell on the door that would announce my exit just as surely as it announced my arrival.
I could see the whole terrible scene play out in my head... I stand up to leave and suddenly it would be like that moment in the old cartoons where Bugs Bunny is tip toeing through the sleeping pack of ravenous dogs and suddenly they are all wide eyed and staring at him. I would be assaulted with a flood of unwanted apologies and sympathy.
"Oh man I'm sorry! Didn't see you there! You ready to come on back? I'm really sorry!"
and I would have to say "Oh no, its okay.", "No problem", "Really its no big deal..." 30 times. They might give me a pity discount that I would gladly pay just to have been completely unacknowledged.
So at this point I made a decision... I had been playing with my phone idly while I sat there just to look like I was doing something other than sitting there trying to figure out what to do with my arms and legs (I had checked all of my empty email boxes at least 6 times by this point.) So I took a page from an old friend and rustled up a fake phone call. I didn't have the fancy app to make my phone ring for real... but I would just let the onlookers think it had been on silent.
"Hello?" I said "Oh not much, what are you up to?"
As I said this I stood up and walked out the door with its loud bell ringing behind me. They may have noticed me but wouldn't dare assault me while I was on the phone with someone. They probably thought I was just going outside for some privacy on the call.
As soon as I had exited the building I burned a path to my Jeep and pulled out of there.
Meanwhile, my hair still grows. It festers.
It waits.
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