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May 30, 2004
I hate getting haircuts. I never explain how I want it cut well enough for the barber to get it right, and I’m too self-conscious and shy to correct him once I realize he’s doing it wrong. I can’t speak, can’t tell him he’s wrong – the words sit in my stomach like cold stones; I compose them in my head, a simple “actually, I was hoping for something a bit shorter,” but they don’t come out. I fell tense, nervous, sick to my stomach, until he finishes and asks me how I like it. And I say fine. It’s fine