We Burnt the Bras. Now, Let's Break the Mirrors

I was in a comfortable chair in a sweet-smelling room, with soft music playing and a friendly woman talking to me, and all I could think about was how horrible I felt. <h2>I hate going to the hairdressers.</h2> Being forced to sit for an hour, confronted with your own reflexion in unforgiving, all-revealing lighting, while someone prances around your skull with scissors, is a first-world form of torture. Getting a haircut becomes a brutal confrontation with the self. Not so much the nitty gritty sort of self realisation, where you find out who you truly are and what you are capable of. You will get no insight into the depths of your soul. But you do get an unmatched level of neon bulb, and panoramic mirrors that you are forced to stare at. Going to the hairdresser’s might not confront me with my true purpose nor my moral limits, but it does give me an in-depth peak at my pores, the bags under my eyes, my wrinkles, the variation in color of my freckles (one of which insists on looking like a smudge of chocolate on my chin). The look is complimented by my hair, wet and stuck down on my head like an otter on a bad hair day, and the shapeless, black gown draped upon me. <a href="https://medium.com/modern-women/we-burnt-the-bras-now-lets-break-the-mirrors-792fc1d13fd">Read More</a>