A Cutting Edge Story

Today I got my lushes, locks cut. Okay maybe my hair was a little bit more to the haggard side of lushes, but basically still the Hercules of hair. Before I get too distracted by adjectives that describe my effulgent hair, I'm hear to talk to you about a haircut.

Part one The Journey:

As I drove that car with all the swagger only a permit holder could, blazing down 40 mph roads with the high speed of 30 mph, I had to make a day changing decision. Do I turn right here, or is the hair cut place the next right?!?! Seeing as I've come back to write this I bet you can guess what I did, but if you haven't figured out the end to this twisty turny story, here's what happened. I went by the first right, then turned right into the plaza that was right next to the one I skipped. With my eyes I slowly looked up, and what did I see, but the right place to be

Part two The Cut:

As like with most things involving buildings, the first thing I did was step in through the doors. As I walked into the waiting room, I saw someone who basically looked like someone I know already now, just an adult version, which gave me quite a surprise. Overall my hair cut was fairly uneventful, but I can't say it wasn't a success, because I came in with more hair then I had when I left. The actual experience of the hair cut was good, with the normal banter between the cutter, and the one being cut. She was very nice, but most importantly for this story she asked me about what the most weird, or gruesome thing I had written about before. I haven't really written anything really gruesome, or weird yet, so I had no response. Along with this we also agreed to have her choose the next thing I was going to write about, and she chose my haircut. This all came together into what I really want to talk about today; A very weird, and sad story.

Part Three the story:

This story occurred when I was in either 4th or 5th grade, I can not quite remember. It started when my teacher asked me if I was okay. I had no idea what she was talking about, I felt fine, nothing bad had happened that I knew of, and she seemed more worried then normal. She explained herself, and told me that my face was all scratched up. To my surprise when I looked in the mirror I saw a face that was from top to bottom filled with cuts. I had literal zero ideas I had these cuts before I saw them, and what I figured out they were from was myself. While at this point the self harm involved already makes this story both sad, and my ignorance to it very weird, both of those things are not the main reason that I'm telling the story. When I realized I had been scratching my face unconscientiously, I stopped doing it unconscientiously. What was truly horrifying of this story though is that I enjoyed the attention I had gotten, from people who had cared for me, that when I stopped unconscientiously doing it, I replaced it with conscious actions. I started to scratch my face with my long nails on purpose, so that I could get that attention back, which I associated those scratches. The physical pain was nothing at all, in fact based on my memories scratching my face really did make myself feel better as a person. (no way inducing self harm, am talking about my experience with it for those who've never thankfully done it)

One reason I'm telling this story is that in the next few posts I'm going to be writing about my history with mental illnesses, and wanted to dip my toe into writing about them. Thank you so much for reading ,and have a very above average day please!