"Ornatrix-o-phobia" or "Damn-those-hairdressers!"

I try to avoid it.

Weeks... months go by. Carefully skirting the subject. Past the stage of denial, you find yourself applogizing for the birdsnest on your head, and it's time to face up to the music.

Sweaty palms dial the number. I hear my trembling voice book a timeslot for doomsday. Scissor-chirps chase me in dreams every night of the week leading up to the dreaded moment.

Come said day, I cannot escape the compulsion to neatly wash my hair, despite the knowledge it will be done all over again, 30 minutes later. A feable attempt to instill upon one's executioner an image that might relate his visions-of-you to your actual face. Try to smile nicely at em to gain some sympathy. "No thanks" to the offer of coffee. Must keep em in eyesight at all times. I shalln't be distracted!

Collecting all my courage, I turn to face the scissor-wielding hands and squeak a feable: "Not.. not short. Please...". A big evil grin acknowledges my request, and dunks my head under the scurgifyingly-hot tap. I resurface, with soap-logged ears and eye-sight blurred, to find myself being steered towards what I hope to be a seat far removed from the shop-window.

Eye-sight regained, I plunge my fingers into my ears to declog them. Only to catch the last snippet of conversation between my edward scissor-hands and his evil twin: "... soooo have to try that new NY-cut on someone today!". My heart sinks. I will not survive this day.

I gear up to eagle-eye his every move and position myself in front of the mirror. But when I look up, I cannot but conclude the goal is simply not worth the effort of facing my own miserable drowned-cat reflection for the next sixty minutes. I grab my book, block out the outside world and quietly agree to simply let the birds nest in peace next time.