It all started in Grade 10, when I saw female classmates stare at their hair to pass time over the teacher’s lecture. That’s when I took my scissors and started cutting violently. Alas, my split ends were left alone until the next English class.
It’s not because my hair is super gross, but it’s bound to have split ends even after a haircut. But splitting my ends became a habit of a week. Months. And now, it’s been years and my eyes have gone blurrier than ever. I’m required to wear eyeglasses everyday, but do I? No, because I don’t like the look as much. Also, I have to remove them anyways to split my ends. How inconvenient. (Contacts scare me.)
I find myself automatically zoning out to split my ends. I do it at work. I do it while on Facebook. I do it while in my boyfriend’s car. For all you know, I’ve been doing it in between paragraphs.
And I can do it for hours (and a half) and it never bores me.
I want to stop, but this bad habit has given me so much satisfaction—the relief I get once a split end has been found and pulled apart (and sometimes you can hear it spliiiit) has kept me telling myself that this would be the last time…for this hour anyway.
I put my hair up, I get a hair cut, I remember why I shouldn’t be doing it (because I can no longer see the friggin split ends or anything else for that matter). It’s been my New Year’s Resolution since 2006. Splitting my ends give me time to think, time to breathe, time to get away. I’m just in my little world, working my little fingers and hoping to find a strand with multiple split ends, because that’s extra special.
I want to stop. My eyes burn, and soon my fingers would get arthritis. Ew.
So the next time you see me do it, please stop me. STOP ME. Don’t be polite, but you could save me, my eyes, my bank account (from dishing out $$$ on upgrading my glasses). You can feel better about yourself, and I’ll feel like you care.