So remember just last week when I was in full crisis mode about cutting my hair? Well, it got a little worse before it got better. The response from “Fuzzyhead” was so positive and supportive that I decided to finally talk to a professional. I looked up the address to the shop I’d been recommended ages ago and decided to go, last Friday. I told a friend I was going and asked her to follow-up with me, so I couldn’t back out. That’s how real my fear was, I needed an accountability partner. Friday morning came and went. It was noon before I even considered putting on clothes. Thinking about it now, I wasn’t aware of my ability to block my own progress, and I’m wondering if this happens in other areas of my life. Hmm. As you recall, my hair was a crow’s nest, half-straight and half-textured, and I had no longer knew of a way to style it looked like I knew what I was doing.
I’d hit the wall. I knew it was time. I got dressed. I didn’t get lost driving to the north side of town. Then I was there, and I could see people inside the shop, but I couldn’t get out of the car. I looked at myself in the rear-view mirror. I’d put on makeup, and clothes that usually made me feel confident. My hair was covered with a hat. None of it mattered. At one point, I almost drove away. What a wuss. All this stress over the hair on my head. Finally, I got out of the car and went inside. And proceeded to make a fool of myself. I have no idea what I said, other than “Cut hair. Going Natural. Box Braids.” I do know that I was talking faster than a kid who has three more pages to read in her presentation, but she just got the 30-second warning.
Thankfully, my stylist, Michele, was very understanding. She repeated back to me what I wanted done and then asked when I wanted to make an appointment. I told her I was “Wide open” because remember that time I quit my job? And then Michele said, “Okay, how about tomorrow?” I’m sure my eyes were as wide as saucers, which was terrifying for the people who could see me, and I’m really grateful my knees didn’t give out. But put on the spot like that I knew it was now or never. So the next morning, I was back. And Michelle cut my hair. She did it in a sneaky way, by talking and engaging me in conversation. My back was to all mirrors, so I wasn’t even aware my hair had been cut until she was halfway through braiding. I asked her how much she’d cut and she said, “Oh, four or five inches.” I’m glad I was sitting down.
Sorry, but there’s no picture. I know you were hoping to see me with super short hair, but alas, you’ll have to wait. I won’t even know myself how I look with my hair this short until I take these extensions out. But the good news is that the first step has been taken. All further panic attacks have been put on hold. And guys, thanks for being there for me.