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I hate getting my hair cut.

You’re trapped in a chair for an hour or more while a person with a weapon hovers over you, cutting things off your body. 

All the while, you’re making small talk, trying desperately to find something you have in common.

Maybe there’s a fear that we don’t land on something good, I’ll be stabbed. 

Since we travel full-time, I have a new person every few months. I never know who or what I’ll get. 

I remember reading a review once of a hair cutter who was well known for being silent. I hired her immediately. I don’t remember if I liked her work, but I loved how she worked and that was all that mattered at the time. 

Another time I booked an appointment at the tail end of recovering from having my tonsils removed so I had a legitimate excuse to not talk. 

So this begs the question: Why the hell don’t I ask for what I want? Why don’t I just march in there and say, Y’know, let’s just skip to the part where where we both shut up. 

Maybe I’m worried about missing out on something interesting. 

Yesterday’s stylist told me all about hiring an astrocartologist to help her figure out where she should live. Astrocartography (or astrogeography) uses astrology to figure out where you should be in the world. It’s super woo woo, but kind of intriguing, right? 

Another time a stylist and I discussed her four year old’s daughter’s usage of the word “pretty”. As in, “Do I look pretty today, mommy?” I suggested that maybe her daughter’s definition of pretty and the reason she was asking the question might not have anything to do with low self-worth or self-esteem. Who knows how a four year old interprets that phrase differently than an adult woman would. 

I wonder what it’s like to be the stylist and have these conversations over and over again through the day. It doesn’t sound fun to me. 

I could change my thinking about haircuts, but I’m not going to. 

There’s a part of me that finds my awkwardness sweet. 

Like my strange face mole that I lovingly tolerate because it reminds me of my dead grandma. (I can’t be sure, but I think that mole is growing bigger? Is it weird to like that?)

We can like the parts of ourselves that seem unlikable because they are us. 

They make up who we are. 

I don’t like getting my haircut and that’s OK.

What don’t you like that you can be OK with? 

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