In Which I Reveal My Greatest Fear

Some people are frightened by spiders and snakes. Some people fear heights or enclosed spaces. Some people are alarmed by loud noises. But of all the people in all the world, I am the one person with a phobia for haircuts. Given a choice, I’d rather spend two hours having the dentist drill a molar than sit for ten minutes in the hairdresser’s chair.

One reason I don’t like haircuts is because I have unreasonable expectations. When I’m sitting in the chair waiting for the procedure to begin, I imagine myself being transformed from Plain Jane to Fashion Superstar.

When I was ten, I tried a mid length bob-like hairdo inspired by American Figure skater Dorothy Hammel. For my eighth grade graduation, I grew my locks out and switched to a Charlie's Angels, Farah Faucet wave. In High School, I experimented with the Pat Benitar chick Rock Star look, cut close up top and longer around the neck. Much later, I tried a Jennifer Aniston “Friends” Cut with little wisps framing my cheeks. Right now I'm sporting the "Forty Something Mom of Three Kids at Least I Washed and Brushed It" look.

Each visit to the hair dresser I would raise my hopes high. This is the style, I would tell myself, which will make me look prettier, thinner, fitter, hipper, happier. Instead, no matter the shape of my tresses, I continued to look exactly like me. It was very discouraging.

But the real reason I shun haircuts goes much deeper. And like most deep seated anxieties, my distress over hair dos and hair don'ts is rooted in my childhood. I caution to tell this tale as I fear my sisters, who suffered this with me, will have nightmares for weeks. But the only way to conquer our fears is to confront them. So here I go.

From the time I was four until the summer after I completed the fourth grade, Aunt Nell cut my hair.

Aunt Nell was Dad’s matron Aunt on his mother’s side, my Nana’s sister. She was a small woman with stooped shoulders who walked with a cane. She had baggy cheeks and droopy eyes, like an ancient basset hound. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in a beehive hairdo and kept in place by a case of aquanet. She wore thick makeup and her wrinkled lips always left sticky red marks on her coffee cup.

A few years after Aunt Nell’s second husband passed away, she moved into the basement apartment in our house. Before moving in with us, Aunt Nell had been living in Nutley, New Jersey. I thought Nutley was a funny name for a town. But to hear Nana say it, you would have thought Aunt Nell had been living in the devil's playground.

"Nutley is no place for a respectable lady." Nana would say. "Its high time for Nell to come home and leave all the carousing behind."

I suspect Aunt Nell had some wild days before moving back to her Pennsylvania home town, because by the time she came to our house, she was worn out. She looked to be a hundred years old. But she was not even sixty.

For as long as I knew her, Aunt Nell had only four hobbies: smoking Kool menthol cigarettes; drinking cheap scotch; watching the stories (soap operas); and complaining.

Aunt Nell was especially skilled at complaining. If the sun was shining, she grumbled that it was too bright. If she found a ten dollar bill in the street, she lamented that it wasn’t a twenty. Aunt Nell had a knack for finding the pot of coal at the end of every rainbow.

At some point in her life, Aunt Nell received a beautician’s license. I don’t know what the qualifications for a hair dressers license were in the 1960s and 70s, but I’m guessing there was no sobriety test.

The haircuts took place in our kitchen. Theresa, Tina and I each received a turn. Aunt Nell would begin by lining up her gear, a row of sharp cutting utensils and straight edge razors. Next, she’d select her weapon, a sharp silver scissor with long, thin blades that resembled a scalpel.

After Aunt Nell picked up her implement, she would take a long pull on her cigarette and let the smoke waft out over her teeth. Then her crooked fingers, scissors in hand, would wobble closer and closer.

Aunt Nell never asked what style I wanted. She didn’t show me a glossy magazine filled with movie stars or models. She didn’t study the curve of my chin or the length of my nose. She just got down to the business of chopping and hacking.

I would sit still. Very still. As still as a six year old could possible sit. The fate of my ears depended on it. At the end of the procedure, I barely noticed my uneven bangs. I was too busy thanking God for allowing me to escape unscratched.

The resulting hairstyle was terrible. Theresa and Tina received equally awful cuts. It’s lucky for me that I had no sense of fashion at that age. Straight bangs, it turns out, were not at the top of my priority list. Intact ears were.

Don't get the sense that I didn't love Aunt Nell. Despite her nicotine stained fingers and whiskey scented perfume, she had her good side. Like when she made hot chocolate with marshmallows on cold winter nights. Or when she let me and Tina cower in her apartment during a summer thunderstorm. Or when she shared treats like cake and cookies. Or when she bought me a new pair of sneakers for Christmas. Or when she attended my school play or gave me a card for my birthday.

As time went by, to my relief, Aunt Nell had less time for haircuts - they interfered too much with her stories. (I can't believe Nathan's brother Seth was really his twin sister who everyone thought had died in a mysterious accident. If only Nathan would come out of the coma, he could get back together with Jill who is consoling herself in the arms her father's best friend.)

Eventually, I started getting my hair done at a little shop at the mall. That shop had ten chairs lined up against a mirrored wall. There were dozens of young, hip stylists sporting the latest cuts. There was a waiting area out front filled with fashion magazines. And there were no half empty shot glasses sitting at the stations. I took that as a very good sign.

Since then, I’ve had some weird cuts and some wild cuts. I’ve grown my hair long. I’ve cut it short. I've had perms and I've had presses. I’ve had my hair tinted every color in the rainbow.

To this day, no one has been able to make me look like Farah Faucet. The best I can say is that at least my bangs are straight. And I still have my ears.