Repression of the Follicles

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I don’t like my hair. I also don’t like going to hair dressers. They like my hair, or at least think they’re paid to like my hair. They love it curly because usually their hair is far more straight. I only let the bottom half of it curl, and it only does so while incarcerated in a confined bunch held together by a high-quality elastic. Oh yeah. My elastics are my hair goons.

This is why I haven’t gotten my hair cut in 18 months, despite a desperate need. It’s why my hair is never cut in an interesting style; communicating an interesting style involves…communicating, with the hair dresser. I don’t like talking about my hair, nor do I tend to have much in common with those qualified to cut it, so chit-chat is awkward at best. I’m letting my hair go grey because dyeing it myself usually results in a disaster. (And I wouldn’t get my hair dyed professionally for the cost and because that greatly increases the length of my salon visit.)

But the time has come, sad to say, to get a haircut. Maybe this time I’ll come across a stylist who makes tolerable conversation and doesn’t judge me for the grey. I’ll only go once a year anyway, as I don’t have to maintain a certain length or style when it’s always held back. Such is an advantage of being a crushing despot.

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