The Rage I Feel

There is no way to describe the rage I feel. I wake up wanting to kill myself and I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror. I will start by saying this is the last time I ever listen to my mother when she tells me to trust someone. Mulder and Scully were right all along: TRUST NO ONE!

I have this INSANE obsession with my hair, probably stemming from the abusive relationship and the guy who would threaten me with scissors to my long locks of hair; but whatever the cause, my hair, and how it looks, is very important to me.

A week ago, I told my mother I had a Saturday appointment to get my hair done with Allen. She told me I should go see Peter (her hairstylist) and to trust him! So I booked an appointment, and cancelled with Allen, who I was sort of trying to avoid because I didn't want to tell him that I coloured my hair out of a box. That was the biggest mistake of my adult life!

I met my mother after my hair appointment and I was not impressed by how I looked. I thought it was just a case of me not liking the way he blowed my hair. I went home, washed it and styled it myself. It was a nightmare! I did everything the same as before, same shampoo and conditioner and styling products; the same blow dryer and brush and everything. To run a brush through my dried hair made it stand out on end with electric static. WHAT THE F*** WAS GOING ON?! I was near tears.

calming down, I thought I would be reasonable and give it a few more days to get used to the change. Well, tomorrow it will be a week later and to think of my hair makes me ill to my stomach. Even when Anthony cut my hair (what I thought to be too short) my hair still looked fab when I left the salon, and it looked fab when I styled it myself. This haircut is a mess. I looked a mess when I walked out of the salon and I have looked a mess every single day since then (and it's not even the cool, I just rolled out of bed mess).

I told him I didn't want an old lady haircut, and I told him I wanted to grow my hair out (thanks for the f***ing setback, buddy). The top most layer of my fine textured hair is cut to 15cm in length all the way around, except for the front side by my left ear where IT IS EVEN SHORTER. It is like he put a flipping bowl on my head and couldn't even hold it straight. Because of this one spot that is shorter than the rest, I look ridiculous even when I try to pin all of my hair up (which I am going to have to do until this mess of a haircut grows to a respectable length).

Coincidentally, my mother spoke with Peter yesterday morning and mentioned I was "unhappy" with my hair. Unhappy? Do I sound unhappy? I am unhappy if I spill tea on my white shirt at work. But at least I can run to the mall on my break and buy a new shirt. I can't f***ing buy myself a new head of hair now can I?

Excuse me, I have to go vomit now.