My hairdresser, like me, has a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. So we tend to compare notes on meds and how we’re doing.
Once she noted that we’d gone a whole haircut without touching the subject, and didn’t that speak well of how we were both doing.
Today: haircut at 11:15. Forty-five minutes from now.
I’m doing fine with this OC stuff. And one small part of the reason is getting to talk about it as she and I do. Having a comrade-in-arms helps build all kinds of courage. And gets my bangs out of my eyes.
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