I Let a Fellow Psych Ward Patient Give Me a Haircut, Almost

Source: Nataliya Vaitkevich/Pexels

I’m sitting cross-legged, shoulders slumped, on my hospital bed wearing those god-awful-hospital-sanctioned cotton pants. I’m already depressed; this doesn’t help. At least they let me wear my own T-shirt. Bipolar disorder, unfortunately, falls under Newton’s third law of motion. Layman’s terms: What goes up, must come down. I know from experience. Catapulting into a psychotic mania (which I did about a week before and what got me there in the first place) guaranteed a severe depression would follow.

Jen isn’t here. As ‘roommates’ go, she’s a bit of a loose cannon but that makes this trip fun, right? Gotta keep on your toes when bunking with a jail-bait kleptomaniac. I know. Not politically correct. But I’m one of the nuts in this treehouse so it’s my choice. Jen’s probably in the rec area jamming some jigsaw piece into a puzzle or flirting with one of the vulnerable non-assertive male patients. God help them. She’s a shark.

I’m oily-skinned, with wretched hair, and a bad taste in my mouth (and not just because my psych meds make my mouth dry). This is the second time I’ve been here. More than anything, besides wanting to leave this place, is wanting to get a frikkin’ haircut. You can sign up for one here. Haircuts, that is. But they’re done by blue-rinse ladies. You know affluent auxiliary hospital volunteers. I'm not very keen on asking for a fashion-forward coif from someone who's older than my dead grandmother. But I have another option. One that isn’t offered on the psych services menu.

I’m sitting on tiles, blue-green, pale, and cold. Sort of like the inside of my insides. I’m wet-haired and messy. Both me and my hair. I wait. Breath deeply. Is this really a good idea? They do say, ‘nothing ventured nothing gained?’ But I don’t think that refers to putting yourself into the hands of a psychiatric patient who's wielding scissors.

“C’mon, just relax. This’ll be fun. I’ve done this a ton of times. Well, a couple of times and it turned out really good. Pretty good anyway.” Jen has obsessive-compulsive disorder, borderline personality disorder, and as I mentioned kleptomania. But she’s nice, really, even for someone who tried to steal my Sony Walkman. She’s also very persuasive, like ‘can talk a hungry dog off a meat wagon’ persuasive. Why else would I be on the floor in the middle of the women’s washroom waiting for her to do ‘salon’ magic? What’s concerning me more than how well she can cut hair, is how the hell did she get a hold of scissors? It’s not like they hand them out with our nightly meds. Someone was sleeping on the job and gonna get into a whole lotta trouble. I wish I was there for that performance review.

Jen hovers the massive scissors above my head, assessing. My brown hair hanging, weedy-like by my cheeks. She’s 15 years my junior and got kick and style. I’m actually excited to see what she’ll come up with.

“You want it short, right?” She tilts her head. In the mirror’s reflection, I see the blades of the scissors crossed like swords. The scars on her wrists from last year’s attempt are white worms winding past her veins. It buckles me when I see them. She and I have more in common than I like to admit. I’ve only thought about it. Suicide. But I've thought about it lots of times. It’s my mental escape hatch. I use it like a release valve. Even if I never do it, the thought of it helps. If things get untenable, I have an out. The fact I have some control over when my pain could end gives me enough hope to keep me hanging on. Ironic, isn't it? But you take what you can.

Jennifer places one hand flat against my head pushing it to the right, tilts her head again, making secret calculations, and lowers the scissors.

But before she slices into my locks, the door swings open “Hey! Stop!” The nurse (not the nice one) shouts. “Jen!? Scissors! Nooowwww!” She meows. Her left-hand palm up and flat, fingers summoning the metal. “Jennifer!” Jen growls to a stand and stomps towards her with pursed lips, she slaps the scissors into her hand and rifles out the door. She glares at me sideways, the nurse, not Jen. I think she thinks I should know better. But that’s why I’m here right? To get better?

Nurse ‘who-cha-mi-call-it’ holds the door open and waits. “We need to have a talk.” Okay, but I still need a haircut. I touch the ends of my hair; thankful the length is still the same. But me, no I don’t feel the same.

Ever since these hospital stays, these psych unit stays, I’ve felt an eerie homesickness. But for what kind of home, I don’t quite know. It would be years later when a therapist would ask me if I could pinpoint it as ‘divine homesickness’. Immediately I knew that’s what it was. And that it had been with me long before my first awakening experience, before my first psychosis. I recognized it from my teary childhood when I prayed into my pillow for parents who wouldn't rage. When I prayed to a benevolent force, I didn't understand but knew existed.

In the meantime, I try to buoy myself. Back in my hospital room, I look into the mirror above the sink that’s by my bed. Though I know I’m a woman with bipolar disorder who went psychotic, I also know I’m a woman with really kick-ass hair. Seriously, I’ve got great hair. That doesn’t really balance things out, but it’s a start.

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If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741.