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Before I discuss what you can do after the haircut actually takes place, there are means to prevent such a disaster in advance. 

First, make sure that you understand your hair type. When I impulsively decided to cut my hair in the eighth grade, I found a Youtube video that seemed sufficient; after all, the girl that cut her hair did it so effortlessly and she looked really good! Nevertheless, when I tried to mimic her actions in the video, I underestimated how thick my hair actually is, so I actually looked like Dora. It was god-awful.

Second, ask yourself, have you ever had any experience with cutting your own hair? Of course, some may be more adept at doing so and will pick it up rather quickly after watching a DIY video. On the other hand, it’s a commitment, chopping off your hair. Try cutting a few strands at first here and there, and possibly don’t commit to cutting all of the desired length off until you’re absolutely sure you’re ready.

Okay, now we’re going to get into the nitty-gritty aspect of the situation — when you actually chop your hair off, look in the mirror, and start freaking out. 

Step One: Don’t panic. I know it might look terrible, but take a deep breath before you do anything more rash. Slowly inhale, exhale, and keep doing that until you stop hyperventilating. 

Step Two: Call your best friend, someone who’s reliable that will offer you some support and guidance in this horrendous situation. I called someone who found the situation funny at first, but they reminded me that it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. (It really was, though). 

Step Three: DO NOT, and I repeat, DO NOT call your mother if she’s not skilled at cutting hair. In my brief moments of panic as my life flashed before my eyes, I summoned my mother to come help me layer my hair so it wouldn’t look quite so Dora-like. What a mistake. She tried to layer it, and for awhile I genuinely thought it looked better. What I realized later was that her idea of layering was leaving all of the chunks of hair in the back of my head untouched from my original snippage, while cutting off the front very evenly, so it was literally one portion of hair at a certain length, and another portion at a very specific other length. Basically, it did not help the situation whatsoever because my hair was now at my collarbones. 

What you should do instead is call a professional hair salon. It’s their job to help, and they will treat your hair according to its texture, length, and type unlike your mother who may not be as knowledgeable.

Step Four: Realize that hair grows back. It’s okay, it might take time, but you will learn from your mistakes. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to put down the scissors and call your local salon. As Mrs. Posey always says, “Make wise decisions.”

In the sixth grade, Mr. Nelson, my Language Arts teacher, had us present on a topic that we were interested in researching. I chose the topic of sleep deprivation, finding various articles that warned of the horrendous effects of sleep debt on one’s physical and mental well-being.

I pulled an all-nighter to finish that project.

Back then, I thought sleeping at midnight was late. When I looked in the mirror, I gaped at the dark circles under my eyes, searching the aisles at CVS for any concealer that would make me look more presentable. Some days, my dad would drive me to school, and I would be knocked out from the second we reversed out of the driveway until the moment he shook me awake at the front entrance of Jefferson Junior High School.

My eighth grade Language Arts teacher made us keep a daily sleep log to track the hours we slept every night. Six, six, six-and-a-half, four, five, six, the list went on. Entering high school, I began keeping a mental tab, and I watched as my mental count of the number of hours continued to dwindle.

I guess I was slightly surprised, but not terribly shocked upon hearing that one of my acquaintances told their friends that I “needed to get my life together.” To a certain degree, yeah, I did need to. But also, there was something about the hours after midnight that would resonate within me, as I would sip my coffee and create a new Spotify playlist to finish my AP World homework. 

Something within me awakened when everybody else went to sleep. There was no one to talk to, no distracting conversations left in sight. The quiet was rich, all-encompassing, but most of all, peaceful. Between moments of inner panic and internal screaming (why am I up again at 4 A.M.), I never felt more like myself than when I would keep myself company at night. Then again, maybe I’m just telling myself that.

Sometimes, I feel scared. Isolated from others, alone with my own thoughts, feeling like there’s a presence surrounding me that I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know how to describe it. When I finally curl up in my bed after I’ve finished a day’s work, sometimes I’ll stay up for another hour or two simply to prevent the next day from starting. Time slows down. I’m in the grace period between today and tomorrow, and quite honestly, I enjoy it.

At the moment, I’m still getting my life together. Though, I don’t see sleep as a weakness anymore. My capability to stay up past the ungodly hours of the morning is no longer my defining feature. 

I can appreciate a good night’s sleep and I would recommend it to you as well. For the sake of your physical and mental well-being, prioritize your own health and head off to bed at a reasonable hour. I say this as a renowned specialist in sleep deprivation; after all, I did my fair share of research six years ago. Don’t let my sixth-grade project go to waste!

Even if you stay up, be patient and understanding with yourself. To be honest, I might be awake as well. Start counting your sheep and drinking your chamomile tea. 

GET SOME SLEEP.

 

I feel like this isn’t taboo to write about anymore, so here goes.

 

For my therapist, 

Thank you for greeting me with warm eyes and a wide smile when I first met you. I remember being more sullen, less receptive to advice, essentially the epitome of  “in my feels” when you first introduced yourself to me that August. Thank you for encouraging me and reveling with me in my accomplishments, even when they were as simple as getting out of bed after two days of being wrapped inside my blankets. 

The one hour I spent with you on a weekly basis is a much-needed break from the outside world. Sometimes I’m exhausted to the point where I’m falling asleep in my chair, and at other times, I’m bouncing up and down in my seat from my fifth cup of coffee. You remind me to take each day at a time, plan out what I need to do, and get it done. Simple as that. Don’t overthink it, even though that’s something I can’t help but do. My mind, constantly racing, is soothed by the sixty minutes I sit in that chair, memorizing the patterns of the rug beneath me, as I trace the pillow that sits in my lap.

Quiet. The clock ticks, ticks, onward. Sometimes we sit in silence; you look at me and wait for the gradual processing of my thoughts so I can translate my musings into the English language. Sometimes I can’t stop rambling, feeling overwhelmed as a wave of anxiousness crashes over me. Nevertheless, you listen. You offer me a practically sacred opportunity to come to terms with all aspects of my life, as painful as some are for me to move past. 

Growing up in an Asian American household, my parents haven’t always viewed mental health as a valid concern. You have been incredibly patient, listening to everything that’s on my mind, thoroughly answering my questions, and opening up a path of communication between all the members of my family.

You’ve been an advocate for me when no one else understands how I feel. Beyond that, you’ve advocated for my own health above all, reminding me that it’s not my Achilles heel to require an extra boost of serotonin and dopamine to get through my day. Even on days where my mentality is all f*ck the world and f*ck my brain and its lack of neurotransmitters, thank you for being there (or like a text message away, pretty convenient that I can text you because sometimes one weekly session isn’t enough).

Okay, honestly speaking, you haven’t been the entire reason why my life looks entirely different than it did 1.5 years ago. Though, you have acted as a catalyst; seeing you was the first indicator that I was at least making an effort to seek help and make my life into something worthwhile.

So thank you! For being there for me, supporting me, and helping me express what I want to say. 

If you’re reading this and it strikes a chord with you, don’t be afraid to consider reaching out and seeing a therapist. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to.

 

 

Sincerely, 

Lauren