I hate getting a haircut. There. I said it.

I turn into a grouchy old man when it’s time to get a haircut. Salons are migraine-creating machines: the smells, the position of my neck during a wash, the heat and noise of the dryer, oh, and the smells. Plus, I feel like everyone is judging me. I turn into some sort of sweaty person with major paranoia problems the moment I walk through a salon door.

Here is a window into my brain during the trial that is my haircut:

Ugh, my hair is a mess. I have to get it cut this week, for real. [Two months later] Today I am really going to get it cut. I mean it. Why can’t I schedule online? Don’t they know how freakin’ hard it is for a mom of three toddlers to talk on the phone? Ack, it’s ringing! What is the name of my hairstylist again? How do you pronounce that? Did I even like her last time?

Oh my gosh, it’s so hard to get out of the house, even if it’s while the kids are napping. Does Mr. Okayest seriously have to be using the leaf blower under the twins’ window right now during nap while I am driving away and leaving him alone with the kids? I don’t want to leave their sweet little faces. I want to turn around. I can’t wait to get away from these kids. They drive me crazy. Oh, I miss them.

Wow, it’s so sunny inside this salon. Why didn’t I pluck my eyebrows better before I came in here? In this blinding sunlight, I bet they can see every errant eyebrow hair. Why didn’t I style my hair this morning? They are so judging me right now. Why does everyone look so much more put-together than I do?

Please hurry this shampoo the heck up. I politely told her to please hurry during my shampoo. Why is she massaging my head? Didn’t I ask her to skip all that stuff and just hurry? My neck is breaking. Why is she even washing my hair? The inside of my ponytail was still wet from my shower this morning. My hair never dries. Can hair mold? Can she see hair mold?

Could she comb my hair any harder? I know it’s all matted and wild because I have three toddlers who prevent proper detangling and are always rubbing sticky hands over my head. Geez, lady, you’re going to break my neck.

Oh, no, she’s drying my ears with that little towel. I hope I cleaned them well this morning. One of the twins stuck his yogurt finger in my ear yesterday and I don’t know if I cleaned it.

Oh my gosh, she’s reaching for PRODUCT. Didn’t I tell her that I don’t like the smells and to please skip any PRODUCT? Maybe I should have told her I had an allergy. Migraines are physical problems- why doesn’t anyone respect that?! Wait, did I tell her not to use product? Was that last time or this time that I said that? Sheesh, Melissa, how can you expect a hairdresser you see every six months to remember not to use smells on your head? Is it too late to mention my aversion to smells? Oh, man, it’s too late. I am stuck inside this helmet of smell.

Oh, she’s cutting. She’s cutting a lot. Don’t panic. Don’t PANIC! It’s just hair. Why weren’t you more clear about what you wanted, Melissa? She can’t read minds. DON’T PANIC!!! I told her just a trim BUT THERE IS A FIVE INCH CHUNK OF YELLOW HAIR IN MY LAP! Oh, she’s just thinning it out. I see. Ok, that’s cool.

Wow, there is a lot of geometry involved in this cut. How does she know how to do this?

Why does she keep combing hair over my face? Does she not want to look at my unkempt eyebrows? Why is she pushing it back over my face when I keep pushing it away? I can’t breathe. I really can’t breathe. She has no idea how thick my hair is. I’m going to suffocate.

Holy crap, it is hot under this mask of hair. And under this plastic cape. And sitting in this sunny salon. How is there this much sun? It’s December, for crying out loud. There should not be this much sun. I am so hot. I am sweating so much. I am so grateful for this torture cape of plastic so my hairdresser can’t see my pit stains.

Wow, that’s a lot of hair on the floor. DON’T PANIC!!!!!!!

I am so glad she isn’t chatty. I get so nervous with small talk coming from people who wield scissors. Thank goodness she just wants to do her job and focus. I like being freed from talking, but I would like to be reinstated to breathing. Can she MOVE THE FREAKING HAIR OFF MY FACE?!

Oh, yay, it’s blow-dryer time. Aren’t I so happy? We’ve got the migraine-trigger-perfecta happening right now: heat, noise, smell. I’m going to die.

Wow, she is really pulling hard. Is my hair or my neck going to snap first?!

It is so so so so hot under this blow-dryer and plastic cape. Forget pit sweat. I think we’ve moved on to butt sweat. I don’t think I can stand up. Will she notice butt sweat on her chair when I leave?

Oh my gosh, she’s spinning me around to see the mirror….

It’s so beautiful! I love it! How is it blonder? She blow-dried it so hard, it got blonder? I love this cut. Wow.

You want me back in six weeks? What a joke. She’ll be lucky if she sees me in six months. I mean, *I* will be lucky if she sees me in six months.

Okay, thanks, bye!