flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
I swear I’m not this bad — I get obsessive about snapping off split ends, which is why I really need to keep up with haircuts, and while I don’t actually pull out hair, I get on these kicks where I run my hands through my hair to catch sheds and then check the ends for the little crunchy white or yellowish balls that are probably just dead skin, but feel like finding treasure to me. If you’re vomiting in your mouth right now, you clearly don’t have this problem, and you’re probably not a serious nail-biter either, because the two things are apparently closely linked.
Believe me, no matter how gross you find it, I want to stop more than you want me to stop. It’s really hard to fight your own brain’s reward system, which is why cheesecake tempts most of us, and sex tempts most of us, and biting nails or picking at cuticles or scabs or pulling hair tempts some of us more than you can imagine. Once a split end catches my eye or I accidentally catch a stray hair with an end or I bite one nail, it’s really hard to not keep going, even with the threat of incredible public shaming when someone says, “What are you doing?”