Things My Hairstylist Will Never Understand.

As I stood in the bathroom at work this morning, hacking off vast swaths of my hair, I couldn't help but think to myself, 'my hairstylist is going to kill me'.

It's true too. Every time I go in there he looks at my hair, trying to hide his frown, and asks, 'you've been cutting your hair again haven't you?'.

Yes. Yes I have. The answer is always yes.

The inevitable conversation follows. Don't cut your hair. Come in, I will fix it for free. Your bangs were fine. What exactly are you having issues with. WHY WON'T YOU JUST COME IN?!! What happened to this part? Did you even use a mirror? Did you cut it in the dark with pruning sheers? While you were sleeping? Why must you always do this to me? Etc, etc.

The simple fact of the matter is that I will always be hacking off bits of my hair. There is nothing that can be done about it. It does not matter how well it is cut, or how much I like my stylist, there will ALWAYS come a day when I find myself chopping chunks of it off as I go about my business.

Here's the thing: I have sensory issues. I can't handle feeling my hair against my neck. When I say, 'I hate it when my hair touches my neck' what I mean is I really hate it when my hair touches my neck. It is the sensory equivalent of having to listen to nails on a chalkboard all day, or two pieces of styrofoam being rubbed together. It makes my skin crawl. By the time I've noticed that it's doing it it's far too late to run down to the salon to have it fixed. The scissors are already in my hand. The floor is already covered in hair.

It's just a fact of life.

My bangs are a whole different issue. While I love long bangs/fringe in theory I hate having to brush them out of my eyes. I feel like an idiot constantly having to swish my hair around to see properly, and frankly, I get a little paranoid that I'm starting to look like an outdated version of Justin Bieber, and lets face it, I'm just not that kind of lesbian.

By the third hair swish of the morning you can bet I'm reaching for the scissors. You can bet I'm going to have super short nut-hut bangs. And you can bet that it won't bother me one bit.

It's not that my hair is cut in ways I don't enjoy. That's not it at all. I'm totally down for whatever haircut my stylist wants to give me. That's what I pay him for, being awesome and making decisions about my hair. The downside to that, is that there's a pretty good chance that at some point in between hair appointments, I'm going to be hanging out in the bathroom, playing Edward Scissor Hands. It's not a reflection of his skill level, or some unspoken or inherent displeasure at the cut given me. It's simply that I'm a neurotic girl with sensory issues. It only takes one hair to tip the scale, and the second it tickles my neck or drops into my line of sight that beautiful haircut he gave me is going to be be altered by my terribly careless and utterly unskilled hands. Fact.

And so, there are many days like today when I catch myself in the mirror unceremoniously destroying his hours of work, and feel bad, at least for the moment. Some things about me he'll just never understand.