The Inner Monologue Of Chopping Off All Your Hair

Ugh, my hair is being so annoying right now. HAIR, LISTEN TO ME. STOP GOING WHEREVER YOU WANT TO GO. DO AS I SAY, PLEASE. Okay that’s it, I’m cutting you off like I’m your parent and you’re my 32 year old son who needs to move out of my house and get a damn job. Your father and I have had enough. I’ve already cut my hair three weeks ago, though. If I decide to cut it, it’ll be above my shoulders and I haven’t done that since I was 11 and it wasn’t even on purpose then. I can’t believe the hairdresser accidently reached for the actual scissors instead of the thinning scissors! Is it bad that I’m still mad about that? Oh well. Okay, where are my car keys? It’s haircut time and I’m late.

Hmm, this place looks good and I hear they take walk-ins. I’m too nervous to call and make an appointment at a fancy salon. Should I do this? I mean, if it turns out like Gene Simmons’ head I could always grow it out, right? I wonder what Gene Simmons is doing right now anyway. Welp, here goes nothing.

Oh my God, there is nobody in this salon right now. It smells like shampoo in here, the good stuff, too. Why did this woman ask if I wanted a haircut? Like duh, this is all you do here. Did she just roll her eyes at me because I said “No” super sarcastically? Crap. She’s the one cutting my hair and she’s going to cut my ears off because she hates me now. I’ll win her back with my wit and charming personality. I also have some candy in my purse, so I’ll find out if she’s into that. Piece of cake. I wonder if Gene Simmons likes cake. He probably does. Classic Gene. I told the hairdresser that I wanted it layered but not so much that it’s impossible to put it up if it needs to be and it looks like she understands. My hair is in your hands, lady. What is her name anyway? PEACHES. HER ACTUAL NAME IS PEACHES. THAT IS THE COOLEST THING EVER AND I AM SO JEALOUS. I bet she smells like peaches and I bet she hates to eat peaches because she seems like the ironic type. I should totally ask but I don’t want to be THAT person. I’ll just keep thinking about it for the remainder of this haircut.

I hate that hairdressers have to part my hair down the middle in order to get an even cut. I look disgusting and I have been avoiding my reflection for the past six minutes. Just like clockwork, the hairdresser has commented on how thick my hair is. They make it seem like I have no idea of the amount of hair that I have on my head. Next time a hairdresser comments on my lioness hair, I should act really surprised, hyperventilate, and pass out so they feel guilty enough that the haircut becomes a freebie.

I absolutely love getting haircuts, but sometimes it just seems like an unnecessary hassle. Haircuts are never really required and I know this because I have once seen a woman with hair down to her ankles and I’m almost positive that she wore her hair like pants. I wouldn’t mind having hair pants but then again, that is too much work for me. One of the best feelings in the world is having somebody play with your hair. There is something so therapeutic about having another person brush your hair, twirl your hair, or simply just run their fingers through it.

Growing up, I’ve always looked forward to my mother brushing my post-bath hair. She’d have me bring her a hairbrush, instruct me to sit at her feet, and she’d brush my hair as we watched late night television. My hair has always been able to become tangle-free quite easily but my mother always continued to brush because just like her, I enjoy it when people play with my hair. Having a person play with your hair is something you can never grow out of. If anything, it’s something I crave constantly. I’m sure I look pretty ridiculous running over to my mother as an “adult” with a brush in hand when I visit my parents. After all of these years, our routine stays the same, even though we don’t have the luxury of doing it every night anymore because I no longer live at home. When I do visit, it’s as if I’m a little girl again for those 30 minutes. I’ll walk over to my mother post-shower with a hairbrush in hand and without saying a word she’ll retrieve it from me, point to her feet, and begin brushing. I’ll take a seat while our attention is held by the television and the next comfortable half hour will simply fly by.

Speaking of flying by, this haircut is over and Peaches looks as if she’s been trying to get my attention for quite a while now. She hands me a handheld mirror, swivels me around, and looks at me with anticipation as she asks me how I feel about her hard work. These situations are always so awkward, but she looks pretty content with how it turned out. I don’t hate it, Peaches. I think you and I are going to become good friends because I listened to your stories and you listened to mine. Also, don’t worry that your daughter has been a little distant lately. She loves you. I don’t know her personally but who wouldn’t love you?! Your name is awesome and you have magical scissor hands.

Wait just one second! IS ALL OF THIS HAIR ON THE FLOOR MINE?? Did I walk in here with a black furry animal on my head and nobody told me about it? I feel like I should ask Peaches if I can gather my hair up from the floor so I could bury it in my backyard and say some touching last words alongside my grieving family and friends. Actually, that sounds like a conversation that could get me banned from this salon for being too weird. I’m going to leave Peaches a generous tip because not only did she give me an unnecessary discount, I feel like I’m leaving here with a new friend.

My hair feels amazing and it looks so much better than it did when I walked through the glass salon doors. I’m a bit disappointed that I don’t resemble Gene Simmons but that’s something that I’ll soon get over. Thank you so much, Peaches for all that you’ve done for me. I am now going to go home and play with my hair for the next eight hours.