Splitting Hairs

A whole industry based on the social supposition that your hair should be a certain length and look a certain way, or else…

I’m not sure why, but ever since I can remember, I’ve always seemed to possess a slight phobia of going to the hairdressers. In my younger days I tried to make do with haircuts from family members, though in quite a few cases the end result had me running back to the professionals. I’ve been reading a bit of Sigmund Freud lately and I’m positive he would attribute the whole thing to some perverse childhood incident buried deep in the subconscious. I certainly can’t recall anything of that sort happening however.

Standing outside I ask myself one last time if I really even need a haircut, but it’s too late. I’m called over, placed in a seat in front of just about the clearest mirror I’d ever seen. Everything is lit a bright white and I almost confuse reflection with reality as I sit like a wallflower watching others being groomed and pampered, waiting for one of the girls to pick me, all the while wishing it was over already.

I guess it’s just a mixture of many things: the whole uncertainty of it all, its inevitability, the change in perceptual self image, that certain strange detached intimacy, the intermittent small talk in order break the silence, etc. Or maybe there is indeed something Freudian hidden just under the surface, disguised perhaps as a distant childhood memory. Who knows? I have enough on my mind as it is.

What’s on Sigmund’s mind?
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