This past Thursday afternoon, Mark is all casual, “Hey, you should get your hair cut, don’t you think?”
I don’t even turn to face him, I just snap, “No. Shut up.”
Sigh.
I hate getting my hair cut. Hate it.
Here is what I hate about it . . .
Every fucking thing.
Seriously.
I have huge irrational personal space issues unless I am going to have sex with you. And yes, I know how insane that sounds. I would rather have sex with a complete stranger than allow that stranger to run his or her fingers through my hair and discuss with me how I would like my hair to be cut.
Not . . . even . . . kidding.
Yes, I am just that dysfunctional.
And for the last 24 years? I have only had sex with Mark.
Mark does not know how to cut hair.
So annoying.
If we ever get divorced? I am going to have a lot of beauty professional sex, and my hair is going to look fabulous.
That’s not fucked up, right?
I have issues, people.
I have mentioned this before.
OK, so when we lived in Vallejo?
The woman who cut my hair came to understand me:
No small talk.
No extraneous touching.
Same haircut every time.
As little eye contact as possible.
And get it done quickly.
I was a very good tipper, in case you were wondering.
OK, but in a new city? It is hard to find someone to cut your hair when you have such strange requirements.
Imagine just my end of this unmade telephone conversation . . .
“Hi! Yes, I would like to make an appointment to get my hair cut, but there are some things we need to discuss first. You have a few minutes?”
“OK, good. So I want my hair to look exactly like it looked the last time I got it cut, but I do not have any photos because I rarely have my picture taken, but that’s a whole other ball of issues, so let’s not talk about that right now. OK, so I want it to look exactly like it looked last time. Shorter than it is now. Got that?”
“Yes, I am aware that this makes your life difficult.”
“OK, and you may not talk to me as I get my haircut. At all. And do not touch me unless you intend for it to be interpreted in a sexual manner, and as I am married? That would not be a good idea. So pretty much? Just don’t touch me. And yes, I know you will have to touch me a little bit because my hair is attached to my head. Duh. So you are going to have to move quickly, or I am going to freak all the fuck out.”
“Ummm . . . no, I am not exactly sure what freaking the fuck out would entail, but I am pretty sure it would be bad.”
“Also? I do not want to make eye contact with you, and if you require me to hold my head in such a way that eye contact is unavoidable? I will shut my eyes and wish silently that one of us dies before I have to open them again.”
“You got all that?”
“OK, just a few more things. I do not want my hair washed. I do not want it styled. I do not want product of any sort to be applied. I will suffer through the indignity of the hand-held blow dryer, but only because I pretend it is for clean-up purposes only and is not related in any way to making me more attractive. Do not put a diffuser on that thing or I will flip out.”
“You still there?”
“OK, so if you use the phrase beauty regimen in my presence, I may harm you. I do not have a beauty regimen. The phrase beauty regimen is all whorish in my mind. I will not be discussing soap, shampoo, make-up, or girly stuff of any sort.”
“No, I am not kidding.”
“Finally? I am likely to have a really hard time telling you how I would like you cut my hair. I will use the word shorter a lot, even though I know that this word offers you no guidance whatsoever. I will be unable to look through books of hairstyles for assistance because my brain will race ahead all dysfunctionally.”
“What do I mean dysfunctionally?”
“Let me think . . . OK, so if I find a hairstyle I like on a very attractive woman’s photo? I will not be able to show you that photo because I will be nervous that you will think I am asking for you to make me look like the woman in the photo.”
“Yes, I know. None of this makes sense. I know that.”
“And if I find a hairstyle I like on a less attractive woman? I will not be able to show you that photo because I will be nervous that you will think that I think that I am not attractive.”
“No, I am not unattractive. I am just all regular. Why are you all obsessed with what I look like?”
“Hello?”
“Hello?”
“Fuck.”
Back to Thursday afternoon, where I have just told Mark to shut up.
He is still all casual, “I just thought that maybe, what with the wedding reception we’re attending on Saturday? You might want to get your hair cut.”
Fuck.
To be continued . . .
Ooooh! A two parter!
Also?
Whoa.
I know!
I tried to tell the story in a single post, but as I haven’t before shared how difficult a haircut is for me to get?
Telling the story of the difficulty made no sense.
So yes . . . just this once?
Two parts.
And I know . . .
Whoa.
Sigh.
you are so funny. I love it.
Thanks, you!
Around here?
I am just insane.
I like funny much better.
Freak.
Yes, I know.
Sigh.
I still love you.
I just won’t touch your hair.
But I might pretend to.
You’re cute when you freak out.
Hee hee!
I do freak out.
Stay away from me.
Seriously.
I’m not touching you.
I’m not touching you.
I’m… not… touching… you…
ACK!
OK, but seriously?
Fucking with the inside of my head?
Love that.
Swoon.
Okay, so not only whores have regimens. I do not have a beauty regimen per se but I do try and wash off my make-up and apply moisturizer every night. I wear make-up anytime I go to work or go out socially. Unless I’m with people I trust implicitly.
From hearing my mother discuss dieting since I can remember I am self-conscious about my weight, which is pretty average, but I’m most self conscious around her.
Which is also messed up. I am aware.
She was also a bit of a hair dresser and so I have no trouble getting my hair cut.
I hate the small talk part though.
And back to the regimen=whore business? One of my nicknames is Dirty Whore, so maybe they are related after all…
I look forward to part II.
For me?
Beauty regimen = whore.
If we ever meet?
I will keep that opinion to myself.
But I will think it.
Snort!
Plus also?
I will be the disheveled one with no such regimen.
Hee hee!
I suppose you don’t do pedicures or manicures. that is a LOT of touching.
No fucking way.
Not in a million years.
Seriously?
A little bit of vomit in my mouth at the thought.
Ack.
Me too!
Someone gave me a pedicure as a gift a while back, and I thought it was just having someone paint my toenails.
Hmmm. This could be cool.
So fucking not.
When she started to massage my legs and feet, I went ballistic.
How ballistic, you ask?
Let’s just say that I am barred from ever going back.
I am shuddery with horror at the thought of this gift.
You are barred from ever going back?
Happy sighs.
Yes.
That would be me.
What the fuck is a beauty regimen? I bathe and brush all things that need brushing. That’s not enough? I’m expected to have a regimen? Fuck me.
OK, that stuff?
That I do.
Fuck me.
Snort!
Yes, but is the second part actually going to be posted tomorrow? You know how you are with cliffhangers. Just saying.
I hate haircuts too. I also like to be silent. But I love the shampooing! LOVE! It feels like heaven. I’m a shampoo whore.
Yes, I think I may actually share the second part tomorrow.
No cliff-hanger here . . . just the inability to say what I needed to say in the space I allow myself.
Ewwww . . . shampoo whore?
Ewwww.
I thought I had space issue but I just don’t like hugging. Can’t wait for part two to hear if the cut worked out.
You know what’s weird, though?
My issues are limited to regular social interactions or anything beauty related.
Doctors?
Even the gynecologist?
Not a problem.
Haircut?
Huge problem.
I think you need to go on a reality TV show in a hair salon. I would PAY to see that.
My hairdresser doesn’t do small talk. Nope. She talks the entire fucking time at warp speed. Most of the time i have no idea what she’s saying. But she’s good…and she’s cheap.
I’m all giggly thinking about Katie’s comment about manicures and pedicures. I can only imagine.
I have issues with ANYTHING that draws attention to my femininity.
Seriously.
I am all kinds of fucked up.
you actually have shared how difficult haircuts are for you?
but never the why or the particulars.
i personally love getting my head messed with (shut up nigel – i mean on the outside)
there’s this spa in santa fe that does a 45 minute hot-oil shoulders and up massage?
it’s better than sex.
Yes, exactly.
That’s what I meant . . . I have never shared the details.
And on the inside?
I love getting my head fucked with on the inside!
Swoon.
But massages?
Not fucking even.
Seriously.
Not even.
Girlfriend… I think you need a “Flobee”… or whatever they were called years ago on an infomerical I watched. I never did buy it, but I’m sure that if I had, Derek wouldn’t look like he’s trying to look 70′s retro. That thing looked so simple, that I think even I could give one a haircut! And, just so you know… your hair has always looked good when I see you!
Jyl -
OK, in Vallejo . . . I had a woman I loved who understood I was a freak.
So I generally managed to see her every few months.
Mark won’t let me get a Flowbee. Although I think?
That would be fucking awesome.
I don’t have all those hang ups with a haircut but what I can’t believe is that people pay for others to RUB THEM DOWN. Massages. Like FOR REAL?! I can’t stand the thought of it. A spa day is like a horror flick for me. With loofah and creams in place of knifes and blood. Or maybe with. I don’t know can we change the subject?
This?
A spa day is like a horror flick for me.
Yes . . . shudders of horror at the thought.
Ugh.
Yes, let’s change the subject.
Huh. I have personal space issues, but you put me to SHAME! I kind of like to get my haircut, but only by strangers. I haven’t had a regular hairdresser since I was a kid. I have a circuit of those walk-in places where staff turn-over is high enough that, if I only go once or twice a year, I’m never going to get to know anyone.
Snort!
If there is going to be a contest?
I always want to win.
Yay, me!
Oh . . . wait.
Sigh.
You can have this one. I’m pretty confident that, if we’re going to compete for the title of most fucked up? It’s nothing but a race to the bottom, baby.
We’ll be all kinds of fucked up and fun at the bottom. You’ll have hair down to your ankles and I’ll use it to floss my teeth!
Ewwww.
Plus also?
I am giggling hysterically.
Love you, crazy woman.
A race to the bottom is basically a slide, so that could be fun.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!
holy.
not sure whether to laugh or cry.
I always prefer the giggling.
But that’s just me.
Oh my gosh, beauty professional sex? Dude, I need a post just on that subject alone. Like, can we please discuss this in depth, k? :)
Snort!
How I love you.