There is nothing wrong with change, of course. Change is good. Change is inevitable and invigorating. But frequently expensive. And this is where things get horrid... because suddenly I'm obsessed with how much things cost. Money, money, money. I hate thinking about money and so I try to avoid it as much as possible. But when the urgent desire to toss all your wordly possessions onto the street and replace it all with shiny, new and inevitably much more costly stuff seizes you, you find yourself tossing and turning and running numbers in your head. And that is horrid. Horrid!
So I'm trying to curb my urgent desire for wholesale change with little mini-changes. New restaurant, new blog face, a new cd or two, new shampoo, new box of tea... and a fresh haircut I'm not entirely certain about yet. I have this major hang-up about looking at myself in the mirror when other people are around. For this reason, I've never been one of those girls who is unable to go to a public restroom unaccompanied by at least two other personages. And for this reason, getting a haircut is absolutely agonizing. Why must they station you directly in front of a huge mirror everytime you get a haircut? Is it some kind of marketing scheme? You sit there and coldly assess your every flaw and blemish and by the time you enter the blow-dry phase, you're all vulnerable to an endless array of enormously expensive beauty products which, if you're anything like me, you will use once and toss under the sink where it will remain untouched until you do one of your bi-annual freak-outs where you toss out everything under the sink in preparation for the next batch of useless and frightfully expensive beauty products. I currently have about eight bottles of Aveda styling solutions roosting under my sink, all of which smell outrageously good, but quite frankly, intimidate the hell out of me. Or make me look like I haven't washed my hair in 94 years.
I'm sure my stylist thinks I'm a total freak. I'm sure she thinks I hate everything she does, because I do everything possible to avoid looking at myself before, during and after the haircut. And when she's finally finished, I can't get out of there fast enough. I practically sprint to my car so that I can try to get a gander at my hair in the rearview mirror. Of course, I only get unsatisfying slices, not the whole effect and must go careening out of the parking lot and home as fast as I possibly can so that I can examine the new do in the privacy of my own home.
My weird hang-up sometimes lead to haircuts like the one I've been sporting since yesterday afternoon... haircuts I'm not entirely thrilled with. And it's my fault, really. Because what kind of wuss is afraid to look at herself in the mirror around other people? Particularly when those other people are wielding razors and shears and going at your head like Edward Sissorhands on a shrub?! If there is one time you should mightily attempt to overcome your freak-girl fears vis a vis your reflection in public mirrors, it is when someone is going at your head like Edward Sissorhands on a shrub.
Fortunately, I'm not all that concerned about my hair in general. My hair grows outrageously fast and by this time next week, it will look completely different. Better. I hope. Feverently.