“So, what can I help you with today?” asked my new psychologist. We were both sitting in armchairs, facing each other. Anne had her back to a floor-length window.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I was eight and a half months pregnant with my first child, and couldn’t find the right position to sit in because everything was sore. My high blood pressure made me sensitive to light, so I squinted at Anne and wished I could wear sunglasses.
Anne smiled at me encouragingly and I knew that I had to tell her the truth if I wanted to get better.
“I’m here because I got a bad haircut, and now I think I’m depressed.”
It all sounds like a joke, or an Amy Schumer skit, but it was true. The final straw that made me pick up the phone and book an appointment with a psychologist was a bad haircut.
After everything I’d been through in the past few months, I couldn’t believe that it was an ugly haircut that had sent me over the edge. I thought I was stronger and better than that.
Luckily, Anne seemed to understand my dark sense of humour, while also respecting the truth behind what I had to say. I really had plunged into depression because of a dodgy haircut, and I needed all the help that I could get to dig myself out of this hole.
In the months leading up to the Haircut From Hell, my life had changed so much it was unrecognisable. I didn’t know who or where I was any more. And yet, I told everyone that I was okay and I meant it.