Shame and Perfectionism.

The Story We Learn to Carry.

Photo by Leonie Clough on Unsplash

Hi Friends,

I hope you’re taking care of yourselves as we continue to ride the roller coaster of this shit show.

And I hope you’re finding daily delights—like the rainbow that graced our skies the other evening.

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On March 2, I wrote a post, What We Hide and What We Can’t, sharing two different experiences from my twenties as a barber. One encounter was disturbing, violating, a memory I buried. In the writing and sharing of it, I wasn’t withholding; I wanted the stories to speak for themselves, stark and real.

Like many stories, this one had multiple layers—the shame and guilt I felt knowing that a man whose hair I was cutting chose to masturbate beneath a barber’s cape, while I, a young woman in my twenties, was caught unprepared by what was unfolding.

*

This quote from Brené Brown has stayed with me, not as a concept, but as a recognition.

“Shame is the birthplace of perfectionism. Perfectionism is not striving to be our best or working toward excellence. Healthy striving is internally driven. Perfectionism is externally driven by a simple but potentially all-consuming question: What will people think?”

Did that experience shape me into someone who tries to get everything right? Maybe, maybe not. But I can feel how it tightened me. Turned me toward perfectionism. Toward managing how I’m seen.

That turn often crushed my curiosity. Stirred up fear. My willingness to try something new. I never wanted to give anyone a reason to look at me or treat me in that way again.

*

I’m about 10 years old.

Readying myself to jump off the diving board, thinking about the noise and splash the cannonball will make hitting the water, when the lifeguard yells at me, “Hey, you need a bathing cap on.”

I look around, not understanding that he’s talking to me, and start the bouncing action at the end of the board before the big jump.

“Hey.” He yells again. “Yeah, you. Just because you look like a boy doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow the rules. Get off the board and put a bathing cap on.”

I don’t jump.

Instead, I run back to my mom, who is sitting under a yellow striped umbrella, taking care of my four-year-old brother, and burst into tears.

“Mom, the lifeguard said I look like a boy. Do I?”

*

When the client left my chair, I walked him to the front desk, rang up his shampoo and haircut, accepted his credit card, avoided eye contact—then ran to the bathroom and vomited. I felt ashamed, a part of my mind certain I brought this on myself.

I didn’t tell my boss what had happened for a long time. How long, I don’t remember. A part of me knew that he would shrug it off. After all, this was the same guy who would stand behind me while I was shampooing a client and rub himself up against me, no matter how many times I asked him to stop.

The first time it happened, I thought it was an accident. Maybe even the second time. But the third time, I knew better. Quickly, I was learning that to be a woman in a man’s world was to have your voice ignored.

When I refused to cut that client’s hair again, the salon owner agreed. Did my boss ever speak to him? It was too long ago to remember.

*

That’s the story I carried—shame, perfectionism. And it’s a story that needs to change. Not because it’s mine, but because it never was.

Question for the Comments:

Is there a story you carry that needs to change?

Thank you for being here. Because Life is Messy… is where grit meets grace, and the messy, beautiful complexity of life is honored. Comment, like 💙, or restack ♼ in the free Substack app—and maybe, just maybe, the algorithm gods will notice.