The haircut.
I hate getting my haircut. Hate. It seems like a rather simple process: call someone, make an appt, go in, explain what you'd like, watch them cut, walk away. I wish it was that easy for me.
I have horrible memories of haircuts when I was a kid. My mom would make an appt with her sylist. They'd devise some evil concoction for the top of my head. They'd spend hours wrapping my head in tiny rollers and applying horrible, foul smelling chemicals that would burn every nerve on my skull. I'd be forced to sit with this burning chemical mess on my scalp for what seemed like days under a hot dryer which only exacerbated the acidic broiling that was taking place on my brain. Eventually, they'd let me out of the hot air prison and remove the curlers and wash out the fire that was encompassing my head.
The torture never ended there, oh no, they'd then devise the most horrible haircut to create maximum teasing from my classmates. I never had any say in what it looked like. I was always overruled. I'm sure my mom was thrilled with trying to make me into a little Shirley Temple but, my god, did I hate it. This went on for YEARS, occasionally the fire was fueled with those horrible "home perm" kits when mom was in a money-saving period. I think she just loved that my hair was pliable and "easy" to curl unlike her own. When I was three (pre-perm nightmares) my hair was stick straight. By the time I was thirteen the chemicals had permeated my scalp far enough that my hair had "natural" curl. Natural my ass, I'm pretty sure the waviness is still left from all those toxic chemicals I was marinated in.
As a result of all of this, I'm terrified of getting my hair cut. I'm sure this fear is similar to those held by my peers at the thought of the dentist. I hate even the calling and making of the appointment. The dread starts the second my hair has been freshly shorn and I know the day will come again soon that it needs to be cut again.
Until Saturday, I hadn't cut my hair in nearly a year. I'd just let it grow and grow (and grow and grow) and I've been wearing it up for the past six months or so as it's easier to deal with and much harder to recognize as being so far beyond "a style" it's ridiculous. As the weather warms, I can't deal with the thought of wearing my hair up for yet another year, so I asked the assistance of a friend who "treats" herself to a salon visit about once a month. For the life of me I could never think of a haircut as a treat. Apparently she updated her stylist of my "condition" before we arrived for the dreaded cut on Saturday morning. I was treated with kid gloves. It was alright. I still clam up and don't tell any hairstylist what I want (what difference does it makes, they don't listen). I realize if I detest the haircut at that point it's entirely my fault but there's something about being wrapped up in one those gigantic bibs and staring at someone chopping away at my hair that turns me into a clam. I've had a haircut. Only 60 odd days til I'm do for another.