The trials of a bad haircut

Choosing a hairdresser is like choosing a lover. It takes time, trust and patience. They need to learn about you and your routine, and your hair, you need to learn to trust them when they say ‘What about this?’

I adore my hairdresser, the lovely A. She and her husband S run a salon in the CBD. They had three salons a few years ago, but decided to concentrate their efforts into one shop, but also sell trade equipment on the side, like high-end scissors. I was lucky, it took me only two bad haircuts to find her after my arrival in Australia. I cancelled my most recent appointment for a couple of reasons, one being financial, because I would rather have spent the money here in QLD than on a haircut.

Now before we left Victoria, I had a haircut, in a shopping mall, I just walked into a shop and said cut it. I wish I’d saved up for A to cut it for me after all, as I got what I paid for, which was shorter so with the beach, sand and sun it would be easier to manage. The only problem, excuse my language. I fucking hate it. I can’t do anything with it as the sides and top are too short, so I am looking a right mess in all the photos.

I have enough body image problems as it is, the one thing I knew looked ok now doesn’t. I spent most of yesterday in tears off and on what with one thing and another, it was a truly crappy day. Combine that with a slide show of pictures of the holiday so far in the evening, I felt fat and ugly. I didn’t go to bed in the best of moods. Thankfully today was a lovely, relaxing day, although with Hurricane Peanut, we’re exhausted. He went to bed before 7pm, I’m finishing this and a cup of tea and following him. I still feel fat and ugly though.

My lovely husband constantly tells me that I look fine, beautiful, skinny and so on. But I look at pictures of me, and cannot convince myself otherwise, and people wonder why I’m always the one to be behind the camera.

I’ve come to a conclusion though, after nearly 38 years of self-loathing (no, that’s not too strong), enough is enough. I’m going to seek help about this in the new year, through counselling or something else. I’m sick of feeling I’m ugly, like I look like a boy, that I’m clumsy and uncoordinated too doesn’t help. I don’t feel girly, I never have, but looking at pictures of myself, my self-esteem is unbelievably low, and as I’m at a really low weight, not what I was when I was breast-feeding, but only a couple of kilos heavier, this frame of mind is a worry to me.

I seem to have dragged my blue funk, (which I thought was just work related) up on holiday with me, yesterday was very difficult. I need to do something about it, and me, before I slide down. My mood and general disposition I thought weren’t so closely linked to my appearance, but it appears otherwise.

On that cheery note, Merry Christmas. I’m also going to get counselling on my pathological loathing of this holiday too. I hate the consumerism, the lights, the children screaming ‘I need this!’ in shops.

Not very cheerful this time round, and I’m sorry. But I needed to get it out of me before I burst into body dysmorphic overload.

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2 thoughts on “The trials of a bad haircut

  1. Getting it out by saying it (writing it) is a good start in the process of moving on, accepting and healing… And don’t let the world’s transformation of Christmas into a consumer holiday ruin your own family’s experience of it. Block them out. xo

  2. P.S. I hear you with the hairdresser thing… I’ve been going to the same place and paying what I would normally consider to be FAR too much for a cut & colour for over ten years… But I trust them with my hair!

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