Is it weird to wash your hair before getting a haircut?

I mean, you’re cutting your hair already; what’s the point? Like, it’s like brushing your teeth right before eating lunch: the teeth’s gonna get gunk in it right after you cleaned out the bones in between the spaces.

Is it weird to wish that you washed your hair before getting it cut?

My hair was growing for almost two, maybe four years straight—it was a relic from the pandemic years, when I decided to quit my office job and be a full-time ghost. People said I needed to grow up and cut my hair. I didn’t want to though. It felt like amputating a limb. I am already grown up though, why do I need to grow up even more? But I had to grow up even more, though. I had to, what other choice was there.

Is it weird to wish that you cut your hair properly?

I did end up cutting it though. It wasn’t as painful or emotional or melancholic or symbolic or whatever the fuck allegory it was supposed to mean. It was quick, took less than 5 minutes. It wasn’t easy though, the scissors I used had flecks of rust on it. It could cut paper well enough, maybe not just keratin or dead cells or skin. Or maybe it was my arm, or the fact that my hair was in my eyes that made it harder to see, made it harder to cut.

Is it weird to wish that you cut your hair properly?

I did end up cutting it though. It was as painful and emotional and melancholic and symbolic and whatever the fuck allegory it was suppossed to mean. It took a while, it took at least 30 minutes. It was easy though, the scissors I used had flecks of rust on it. It couldn’t cut paper well enough, it could cut through dead skin, keratin or cells. I was tired, but the fact that my hair was in my eyes made it easier to get it over with, made it easier to cut. I think I wanted to, though.

Is it weird to wish that you washed your hair before getting a haircut?

I kept my limb in my bedside drawer, it doesn’t smell or rot or draw ants, worms, and other crawling things. It’s just there. Maybe one day the bones will adorn a blade, maybe one day I’ll forget about it and cry myself to sleep and feel a gap in my memories and forget why I’m feeling this way over something so forgettable. Maybe one day it’ll decompose in my drawer. Maybe it’ll decompose in my garden’s compost bins. Maybe I’ll stop wishing that I washed my hair before getting it cut.