pogoism

Some people are scared of heights. Some people are scared of spiders. Others are scared of injections.

None of these things frighten me.

One of the few things I have a phobia of is going to the hairdressers and getting my hair cut. There’s even a name for it – tonsurephobia.

Okay, phobia might be a bit strong, but I hate it. I’ll put it off for weeks and weeks, and make up any excuse not to go. “I’ll go at the weekend, I don’t have enough time now” “It’s the weekend, but I should have gotten up earlier to go get it done – now it’s going to be busy” and so on…

There isn’t a single part of the experience I like. Going in and waiting, secretly hoping that you don’t get the weird looking hairdresser who you’ve convinced yourself will make you look like a member of the Beatles. Reading the boring magazines about the latest trends in hairdressing, which none of the stylists would be able to recreate on your head. Then going to sit down and having to make small talk with the hairdresser about all sorts of inane rubbish when both of you couldn’t give a damn about where you’re going on holiday.

And when you’ve run out of things to talk about, it gets really awkward. You try to avoid all eye contact with them, which is surprisingly difficult given that you’re both looking into the same mirror. When you do catch their eye, you feel as though you have to give lame conversation another attempt, and you awkwardly stumble on.

The it’s over. Or at least you think it is. The hairdresser puts a mirror to the back of your head an dyou cringe at what an awful job they’ve done. They ask you if it’s ok. You lie and say yes. Then you realize all the things they’ve forgotten to do – trimming sideburns, left too much over the ears, and you have to ask them to fix it. Then you see something else. And repeat.

You leave, not wanting anyone to see you until you can get home and survey the damage and hope it looks better after a shower.

What a horrid experience. Until next time…

Photo via Flickr user insertinanename