Let Myself The Hair Cut

I got a haircut this morning after approximately a month of putting it off. I delayed so long not because I was afraid of receiving a bad coif (it's really hard to mess mine up), but rather because I was nervous about communicating in a salon-setting. Thing is, I don't really like getting a haircut even at home because I don't like my vanity being made manifest in public--sitting in a chair and talking for twenty minutes about how I want my hair to look makes me feel like Narcissus staring into the pool of water. Something inside me, either by nurture or nature, tells me that the experience is far too self-indulgent for my own Good. And when one combines that guilt with a lack of German vocabulary vis-à-vis haircuts, one finds oneself finding any excuse to avoid the experience.

In the end the experience went fairly smoothly. The hairdresser seemed to know intuitively what I wanted, and given that her salon is only a five minute walk from my dorm, I suspect she's rather used to cross-cultural clipping. What's more, the trim only cost 8 €, tip included.

I'm glad to be done for another reason, too--it's been several years since I've waited more than a month between haircuts, so the 2.5 months I waited this time meant that my hair was longer than it's been in a very long time. For most that extra inch would be unnoticeable, but for me it was maddening--so much so that I was afraid of developing trichotillomania.