As I sat on the swivel chair in front of the oversized mirror and watched inches of my identity fall to the floor, a sharp shooting pain coursed through my head. The overly tanned blonde with flappy skin in a polka dot shirt circled my chair indifferently. She talked about her cat. I smiled. I worried that I’d lost my earring somewhere in the salon, (probably in the sink and down the drain). Another inch fell to the ground. Sharper pain in the head. My earring.
I can’t believe how my neurosis blossomed as I sat in that chair for a simple haircut. I bounced between stroke and lost earring with every sweep of the scissors.
It made me realize that I use hypochondria as a vice. As an escape. I use hypochondria to drown out the real world and real world problems. After all, if I have a stroke, I don’t have to live with a bad hair cut, or even find out how bad it is.
As soon as I realized the cut was okay, the stroke symptoms faded. The earring was a non-concern. I had to fight myself from scheduling another appointment right then and there. But, I guess that’s life for a neurotic extremist with hypochondria.
Next time, I’ll leave my earrings at home.