If You Give A Deranged Nutcase Some Scissors

Achluphobia, what many kids have: the fear of darkness. Erotophobia, what many parents have: the fear of sexual questions. Deipnophobia, what many human beings have: the fear of dinner conversation. Anatidaephobia, what I'm sure only one person in the world has but they still had to create a name for it: the fear that somehow, somewhere, at all times, a duck is watching you. Though these phobias apply to many, none of them apply to me. My fear is one so rare, so unusual, they have yet to come up with a name for it. In order to convey the severity of this fear, I will name it myself. Snipsnipophobia, what Natasha Ferrier should have been diagnosed with after her traumatic experience in '96: the fear of haircuts.

"So how long has it been since your last haircut?"

"Well, actually...it's been abouttttt....maybeeeee...oh, about six years."

"Wow!"

"Yeah, I know."

"So when was your last trim?"

Was that a trick question? Because I definitely thought that was what I was answering the first time. Should I lie and save myself the embarrassment, or honor the whole "honesty is key" belief system?

"Oh, like...threeeee...months ago...yeah, I'd say about three months."

Of course I'm gonna lie! I'm not Mother Theresa, for crying out loud.

"Yeah, there are some dead ends. You want to get a trim every two months."

SOME dead ends? SOME? Does she not realize that if I'm supposed to get "oh just a little trim that will ruin my life" every two months, that's like THIRTY trims I've NOT gotten that I should have. That's like, SIXTY inches of hair I'm NOT supposed to have that I have. That's like, FIVE feet of hair. That's like, a SMALL PERSON.

"Yeah, I've just been so busy I haven't been able to get a trim in awhile."

Busy for six years, that is. Busy growing out my hair that the last lady not only chopped completely off, but cut into some sort of weird shape so it went down into a point in the back that had even my best friend calling me, "Triangle Head." Busy staying away from psychotic loonies with small-toothed combs like YOU.

"Well, how much would you like cut off?"

She's asking me this AS SHE'S CUTTING. What if I had said, "one centimeter please"? Would she be like, "too late, I already cut five inches off"? YEAH, then why'd you start cutting before I even answered the QUESTION, you Edward-Scissorhands Wannabe with BAD highlights?

"I want to keep my hair as LONG as possible."

"Okay."

"Like, as LONG as POSSIBLE."

"Got it."

That's what the last lady said and by the end of the "trim" I looked like Carrot Top without the carrots.

"Like, I want it AS LONG AS POSSIBLE."

"So, like two inches?"

Get the ruler get the ruler get the ruler get the ruler.

"Is that the least amount you can cut off?"

"Well you actually have four inches of split ends, so that'd still be leaving two inches that should probably be cut off."

What are you trying to say, doll face? I've gone six years with those split ends. Another twelve won't make a difference

"I'll just stick with two, thanks."

"You want bangs, as well?"

Did I say anything about bangs? Did I mention bangs at all? I don't THINK SO. What is it with these people? It's like if you give a mouse a cookie. He's gonna want some milk. If you give a deranged nutcase some scissors, she's gonna want to chop off all of your hair.

"No thanks, just the trim. Just want to keep it as loooonnngggg asssss possibllleeee....that's right, just as loonnnnggg assss possibllleeee....you know, just want to keep it as lonnngggg asssss---"

"Yes, I will keep it long."

Snip snip here, snip snip there, hair falling to the floor, no one sweeping it up, just leaving it there for me to stare at, just leaving it there so I realize that it is no longer on my head but now on the floor, no I can never put it back, unless I got hair plugs, oh my god I'm about to have a nervous breakdown, she's still snipping, why is she still snipping, why is this taking so long it's just a trim, if she gives me bangs I'm ripping out her heart and eating it, gotta think of something else, that man who just walked in is bald what could he possibly have done here this is a hair cutting salon---

"Done! Wanna take a look?"

They always ask this as they swivel your chair around to face the mirror, which really gives you no choice since the mirror is huge and you don't want to look like a freak and stare at the floor the whole way out.

"Well, do you like it?"

They always ask this with a smile on their face, giving you no opportunity whatsoever to say NO I HATE IT HOW'D YOU EVER PASS BEAUTY SCHOOL because they would be crushed and it would be awkward.

"Yeahhh...!"

"You do? Because I cut this here and---"

Blah blah blah I know how scissors work, thank you. I just want to pay and get out of here. Actually I just want to get out of here and NOT pay but that would be breaking the law, I'm sure.

"Well, thanks!"

"Remember! A trim every TWO MONTHS! You had 4 inches of split ends that I had to cut off."

Screeeccchhhh! Wait a second, little missy, you said you were going to cut off TWO INCHES and that was IT. You good-for-nothing-lying-cheating-scheming-pink-banged-tattooed-bicep-BITCH. I HATE this place. I'm NEVER coming back. Not if someone holds a gun to my head. Not if someone pays me a million dollars. Not if you and your little posse tell me it's been TEN YEARS since my last haircut and that I have hair FALLING OUT. You double-crossing-psychopathic-leopard-heels-livin-in-the-80's-BITCH.

"Only FOUR? Wow! Because I haven't had ONE TRIM in SIX YEARS! Only FOUR inches, huh? Wow..."

Take that, BITCH.