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The Quiet Habit of Self-Sabotage — and the Grace That Disrupts It
Breaking Free from the Lies We Tell Ourselves in the Mirror
Two days ago, I went to get a haircut.
I tend to dread it these days. Not because I don’t like the barber. Not because it’s painful or expensive. But because every time I sit down in that chair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it feels like there’s a little less hair than the time before.
That moment when you sit down, the cape goes around your neck, and you catch your own reflection under those brutal fluorescent lights. And there it is again — the same sinking feeling.
Less hair. More forehead.
A scalp that seems a little more eager to introduce itself to the world.
I try to joke about it. When the hairdresser asks the usual question — “So, what are we doing today?” — I just shrug and say, “Do the best with what you have.” It always gets a polite chuckle. And then they set to work, hands moving quickly, as if styling my hair were some sacred act of multiplication. Take a few stubborn strands, a few defiant patches, and see if you can stretch them into something respectable — like trying to feed five thousand people with a handful of loaves and fishes.
