Armed to the Teeth – Coping strategies for dental procedures

Armed to the Teeth

Coping strategies for dental procedures for highly sensitive individuals

Introduction
When it comes to health care, few aspects are as problematic for individuals with heightened physical sensitivities, especially those on the Autistic Spectrum and with Asperger’s Syndrome (“AS”). I, myself have had considerable sensory issues, from childhood into adulthood, and I’ve “been through the ringer” many times with the dentist. Fortunately, I’ve developed a number of coping strategies and mechanisms, and by trial-and-error, I’ve figured out how to visit the dentist successfully and persevere through even the most trying procedures.

I have written this work in hopes of shedding some light on the ubiquitous and mysterious conundrum of ASI’s and their extreme difficulties with the dentist. The coming pages explore this issue through the lens of my own personal sensory and social experiences, as a 43 year-old woman on the Asperger’s end of the Autistic Spectrum, who has both experienced and overcome lifelong difficulties with dentists.

It is my hope that this work may shed light on common (but often unrecognized) sensory issues which are often particular to AS, show the significant part these play in further complicating what is already a difficult process (whether you’re autistic or neurotypical). Believe me, you/we are not alone! And NT parents of AS kids, please note: We’re not deliberately trying to thwart your attempts to get us the best dental care possible. We’re just very special people with extreme sensitivities which aren’t (yet) particularly well understood. And those issues can make going to the dentist nothing short of torture.

Personal Background
I am a 43-year-old Aspie woman with lifelong, chronic sensory issues, who has always had real problems with the dentist. Fortunately, I tend to be pretty obsessive-compulsive, when it comes to my daily dental care. When I’m nervous, I soothe by brushing my teeth. And I’m very careful with how I brush (I used to work with a guy who was even more OCD than I, and he brushed his teeth so hard, he wore the enamel off and had to have them all bonded — the thought of that doesn’t appeal to me in the least, so I’m very careful when I brush!). I also chill out in the evenings by flossing while I’m relaxing after a long day. So, I manage to soothe my frazzled nerves and take care of my teeth at the same time, which is great for avoiding painful dental procedures.

I absolutely detest getting my teeth cleaned and worked on. I can be so phobic about it, I go to great lengths to avoid the dentist, both by canceling my dentist appointments, and by being so conscientious about brushing and flossing that I get the seal of approval from my dentist every year. They are continuously amazed at how well I take care of my teeth, and they begrudgingly tell me that I probably don’t need to come every six months to get my teeth cleaned. They hate telling me that, but it’s the truth.

When I do visit the dentist and I need to have a tooth filled or a crown put on, I’ve developed some coping strategies that let me stay in the chair for however long I have to, and keep from losing my mind. It wasn’t always that way. I used to really “lose it” and suffer for hours afterwards, even days. Going to the dentist used to exhaust me so terribly, I’d be in shock and all I could do was sleep, after I got home. Now I have my ways of dealing with it, and I’ll share them with you shortly.

Others are not so lucky to have good coping skills, unfortunately. A close friend of mine is so sensitive and so phobic about the dentist that she neglected her teeth for years, and she’s now paying the price. She’s got to get lots of fillings replaced, have multiple root canals, and she may lose some of her teeth to a bridge. She’s also missing a tooth in the back of her mouth, which she hasn’t had replaced by a bridge or an implant, and now her teeth are “floating” out of position, which is not good, because she’s a voice actress, and she needs to have good enunciation to get work.

Bad teeth are a bad problem for her, and her problems have their root in her sensitivities, her fears, and her history of trauma with the dentist. The thing about your teeth though, is that — like we imagine about other problems — if we ignore them, they’ll just go away. But if you want to keep your teeth (or you want your kids to keep theirs), figuring out how to go to the dentist is an essential coping skill that you really can’t avoid cultivating — unless you don’t care about bad teeth.

Why It’s So Hard for Some of Us
Going to the dentist isn’t pure living hell for everyone. I don’t know anyone who enjoys it, but not everyone sees it as the life-and-death situation that some of us dread. I’m one of those people who, for years, had a terrible time even thinking about the dentist. But there’s a reason for everything.

Those annual visits were particularly hard for me because:
The sounds of getting my teeth worked on was very hard to take. I think it’s safe to say, everybody hates the sound of a dentist drill. I can’t imagine anyone who does (other than the drill-makers who delight in the sound of their products being used). It wasn’t just when I was in the chair, that it bothered me — it was hearing the drill in the background, while I was sitting in the waiting room, dreading the thought of being the person in the chair.

I never knew for sure, if the drill would be used on me, which was nerve-wracking. It’s one thing, if I knew something horrible was going to happen. Then I could prepare for it. But not knowing was probably the hardest piece.

One of the other problems was, not only the drill made noise. Everything in the dentist office made noise. The cleaning apparatus, the little spittoon that had the blue water that swirled my spittle and blood down the drain, the x-ray machine, the sound of implements being arranged and re-arranged. The cleaning apparatus sounded a lot like a drill, too, when it got going, so I had a lot of bad associations with it, even though I knew that getting my teeth cleaned was not the same as having them drilled and filled.

One of the other sounds that really bothered me was the sound of the cleaning pick on my teeth. The scratchy grinding of the metal against my teeth…. well, put my teeth on edge. I hate the sound of hard things scraping against my teeth (including wooden popsicle sticks), so the sound of the cleaning pick was pretty distracting and troublesome. Imagine having someone sit you down, forbid you from moving, and force you to listen to fingernails on a chalkboard for an hour, and you’ll get a little bit of an idea of what it’s like for some of us. But I had to put up with the sound, so my teeth would be clean.
Another problem I had was with sitting still for an extended period of time. When you have sensory issues, it can be next to impossible to sit still. I personally need to move to relieve the sensory agitation, and “move the energy” that gets “blocked” like a flowing river stopped up. I was pretty hyper when I was a kid, which I believe was sensory in nature — directly related to my surroundings. Being assailed by the noises of the room and not being able to move, to calm my nerves, was just torture.

Now, I was actually able to keep still, when I was a kid. But the only thing that did it was the fear of being cut or nicked by a sharp implement. It wasn’t pleasant, feeling like I was under constant threat, but it did the job. Also, I grew up in a time and a place that was very discipline-oriented, and most adults had no problems with correcting badly behaving children. So, my dentist was often stern with me and insisted I sit still. I think that a more lenient approach would not have worked with me. And operating in a parented environment like today’s, when permissiveness and acceptance is much more widespread, would not have helped me to sit still.

I could also never tell exactly when the cleaning would be over, which made me crazy. I could sit still for a while, if I knew when I was going to be able to move, but being locked in place for an indeterminate period of time was torture. Again, I was reprimanded by the dentist or hygienist, if I moved, so I knew what I was supposed to do. And I did my best to do it.

Blood in my mouth and blood on my clothing made me very uncomfortable. The experience of spitting out blood into the spittoon made me really nervous. It defied my logic. In the first place, my mind told me that blood belonged inside your body, not outside. Bleeding was a sign that something was wrong. And if I was spitting out blood, then something was wrong, and the dentist/hygienist was doing something bad to me.

Bleeding was bad.

People who made you bleed were bad.

People who made a living from making you bleed were not to be trusted.

People who brought me to the people who made you bleed for a living were punishing me for something, but for exactly what, I was never sure.

It was pretty rough to sit there and submit to what I perceived to be mistreatment at the hands of people my mother handed me over to.

Ultimately, I learned to differentiate between intentionally making people bleed for fun, and having bleeding be incidental to a necessary procedure. Eventually, I learned about necessary evils and how to tolerate them for the sake of long-term gain. But it was pretty rough, when I was a kid, trying to get my head around the experience of dentist visits. It just didn’t make sense that my mother, who loved me, made me go to them.

Only when I was in my teens did it occur to me that bleeding while getting dental work done might be good. I learned that bleeding is the body’s way of cleaning out wounds, and I came to associate some (but not all) types of bleeding with a positive physical action. So, that helped me cope emotionally with the normally distressing experience of spitting out blood.

One thing that was really troubling for me, too, was getting blood on my clothing. I couldn’t always hit the spittoon properly — I was disoriented and dizzy (which I’ll talk about in a bit), and I would sometimes get blood on my clothing. I hated that! The little red specks on my clothing made me so uncomfortable, both as a reminder of what I’d been through, and because they could stain. Blood spots were messy. Messy made me nervous.

It took me years to figure out how to keep the blood off my clothing. I was a real klutz when I was a kid, but as I matured, my balance and coordination improved.

The taste and texture of the toothpaste was a problem for me. I hated the feel of the grainy texture on my teeth, and the taste of it bothered me. Eventually, I came to associate the taste with clean teeth, and it became actually agreeable to me. But years later, when they started having different flavors available for kids, that made me nervous, because I associated sweet flavors with a) sugar and b) artificial flavorings, both of which I was convinced were “bad”.

I had a strong fear of swallowing the toothpaste. In my young mind, I associated the toothpaste with medicine, and I got it into my head that swallowing the toothpaste would be a very bad thing. I was so on-edge when the toothpaste would come close to the back of my mouth, where I might swallow it. But I couldn’t move to rinse it out, because the dentist/hygienist had to work on me. It was so nerve-wracking!

Years later, it occurred to me that a dentist probably wouldn’t have toothpaste that was toxic or poisonous, or that couldn’t be safely swallowed, at least in small amounts. If that were the case, I reasoned, a lot of people would be dead, and dentists would be put out of business by lawsuits. So, I convinced myself that swallowing toothpaste would not be the end of the world.

I didn’t deliberately swallow it, but taking the pressure off made it easier for me to relax — and avoid ingesting any of the paste.

I was desperately afraid of choking. I always have been. Some Aspies have real problems with swallowing, and I had some issues when I was a kid. When I went swimming, I often accidentally inhaled or swallowed water, and it completely freaked me out. So, I associated having a mouth full of uncontrollable liquid with the feeling of drowning.

Being in the dentist chair, I had a hard time coordinating all my senses, to begin with, so controlling my swallowing reflex was even harder. Sometimes, I literally couldn’t feel whether or not the rinse was going down my throat, and that really frightened me. When you’ve nearly choked often enough, you start to get a complex about possibly having something go down the wrong pipe.

The lights were too bright. Of course, dentists have to have enough light to see what they’re doing, but for me, it was too much light. That spotlight was supposed to be bright, but it was blinding, and it made it even more difficult to keep my balance and keep from choking on the rinse.

I hated having that overhead light lowered down to point right in my face — very glaring! I can get sensorily overwhelmed even more quickly, if bright light is combined with loud sounds and strong smells, so the dentist chair was not a friendly place for me. It was just so overwhelming. There was no escaping it… Bright lights overhead, the sound of equipment and drills and machinery, the smell of toothpaste and medical supplies…

It was almost too much at times.

Being injured for days afterwards completely threw off my everyday sensory experience. Having nicks and cuts in my mouth complicated things, because it distracted me from my daily sensory experience. It was a new physical sensation my mind has to “parse” each moment of each day, until the injuries heal up. It’s bad enough that I get nicked and cut and bloody while I’m at the dentist, but then to have to go through days of this “sensory background noise” of constant sensitivity and pain, is disorienting and agitating. I’ve since learned to deal with this… it’s really been a learned thing for me, as I’ve gained life experience with having a sore mouth after dentist visits, and I’ve learned how to handle it. But when I was young, it was so hard for me to handle the feeling of cuts in my mouth.

I was afraid that I’d infect them, or they wouldn’t heal. It really hurt me! But I didn’t let on, because I didn’t want to worry my parents. I’d made their lives difficult enough with my problems. I didn’t want to burden them with more.

I hated being leaned back in that chair. Sitting absolutely still in the chair was hard for me. The longer I was in the chair and the longer the cleaning or procedure lasted, the harder it got. I felt like I was going to fall over, and I was afraid I’d be cut by the dental implements. I was intent on holding still, but I was so distracted by the feel of my teeth being worked on, that I often felt nauseous. I literally felt sick, whenever I was leaned back in that awful chair, forced to look into the light.

When I’m off balance, to this day, I have to hold my head a certain way in order to feel right again — but moving my head this way and that was definitely not what the dentist wanted me to do. I remember many an exclamation of frustration and consternation, when I would move at just the wrong time, and the dentist would lose his/her angle and would have to start again.

It also made taking x-rays tough, when I couldn’t hold still long enough for them to position the film or take the shot. I remember some times when I messed up the shot and they had to try again… or I’d be in such pain and discomfort from the film holder digging into my sensitive gums. It couldn’t be over soon enough, and I dreaded the thought of getting x-rays.

Nobody seemed to understand what I was going through. Indeed, if you don’t have balance and/or sensory issues, it’s probably next to impossible to grasp the impact that such instability has on your head, your attention, your stomach. Just imagine what it would be like to ride a tilt-a-whirl for three hours, then get off and have someone tell you that you have to sit up straight and hold absolutely still for half an hour, or you’ll be cut with sharp scissors and/or end up looking really awful. That’s what it was like for me. But whenever I tried to adjust my head to regain my balance, I’d get out of position, and whoever was working on my teeth would get very upset with me. I couldn’t help it — I was just trying to stay upright. And not throw up.

I also had trouble coordinating my physical position with a mouth full of liquid — that was very troubling. There was something about having to concentrate on not choking on what was in my mouth that made it hard for me to sense the space around me, which threw my sense of balance off.

The talking made me nervous. First of all, I couldn’t respond well, if my mouth was numbed. And second, I couldn’t really understand what was being said, because my thinking was so focused on keeping my sensory experience together. It took me a while to figure out a) that someone was talking to me, b) what they were saying, c) what it meant (I had to translate into pictures in my head), d) how I should respond, e) what I should say (I had to translate the pictures in my head back into words, and f) if what I’d said was the right thing.

Talking was usually at a minimum at the dentist, but when it happened, it was important, so the pressure was even greater for me to communicate, which I couldn’t do very well. It was all I could, to just sit still, let alone come up with a coherent verbal response.

And that, dear reader, is a relatively brief overview of the sensory challenges this Aspie kid had with going to the dentist. There have been times when I’ve toyed with the idea of having all my teeth extracted and just having dentures, but in reality, that’s the last thing I want to do!

Fortunately, I’ve figure out some ways to deal with the dentist, and I’ll share them now.

Dental Coping Ideas from Aspie-Land

Getting through even the most “routine” dental procedure takes a pretty strong act of will with me, but I can do it. I have to do it.

I’ve developed a set of specific, deliberate physical actions with my tongue, and I have a special breathing technique that really works. It suppresses my gag reflex, keeps me from choking, and (perhaps most importantly), it keeps my mind off the sounds of the drill and/or the cleaning pick. It also lets me feel that I have some control in the situation, which is an important psychological aspect of each visit.

How do I do it?

Basically, I position my tongue, so that it’s pressed against the back of my throat and flat on the floor of my mouth, I breathe loudly through my nose, and I make a conscious effort to either relax specific parts of my body, or I hold onto the arms of the chair and “stim” along the seams of the upholstery.

Here’s a picture of what I do, with my mouth and my breathing:

Mouth and Tongue Positioning to avoid choking and breathe freely during dentist visits

Using my Tongue to Suppress my Gag Reflex and Gain Control
The specific, deliberate physical action of pulling my tongue to the back of my throat and pressed to the floor of my mouth not only keeps my mind off the whine of the drill and the scraping of the cleaning pick, but it also gives me a greater sense of control in the situation.

How do you do it?

Pull your tongue to the back of your mouth, pressing it against your epiglottis (that little dangly thing that hangs down in the middle of your throat). You should feel a “wad” of tongue against the back of your mouth. Now, at the same time, press your tongue flat to the floor of your mouth. You should feel the tip of your tongue making contact with the thin line of membrane that runs under your tongue, connecting your tongue with the bottom of your mouth.

It might seem simple, but this basic action achieves a number of important things for me when I have to endure a trip to the dentist:

First, it blocks off my throat and blocks the way for any liquid to go into my airpipe. Remember, some Aspies have problems swallowing, and with me, I’ve always had an intense fear of drowning and/or choking.
Second, it keeps my tongue away from the machinery, so I don’t get nicked or cut. It also keeps my tongue from interfering with the sharp implements, so I’m not getting in the way of the hygienist or dentist while they’re working. Again, the more my tics and physical responses get in the way of the people who are working on me, the longer my agony lasts. So, keeping my tongue pulled to the back of my mouth lets me participate in the procedure as an equal partner who is involved, not some poor dweeb who is just being put upon.

Third, it gives me a single point of physical focus, on which I can put my full attention.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, it gives me the sense that I am in control of my situation, and that I am able to keep myself from gagging, even choking or drowning in the “runoff” from the cleaning/procedure.

Holding my tongue firmly against the back of my mouth and blocking off the fluid runoff from entering my airpipe is probably the most important thing I can do to relieve the anxiety of being in the dentists chair. If I do nothing else through the course of my visit, if I can manage to do this — and if I do it well — I can get out of the office in one piece without being completely wrecked.

Try it and see how it makes you feel — maybe you can try this with your sensitive kid and practice it with them… when you’re driving in the car, or a trip to the dentist comes to mind. You might also want to practice doing it with your sensitive kid(s)… maybe when you’re on long car trips and you’ve run out of things to do. Make it into a game, make it fun, and help them practice this move. It’s a simple thing, but like I said, it offers me a whole lot. Like sanity.

Nasal Breathing
The other part of this is a technique I call “nasal breathing” — it basically makes a lot of noise in my nasal passages while I’m breathing. While my tongue is pulled to the back of my mouth, pressed against my epiglottis, and held down low, out of reach of the cleaning/filling tools, I focus my attention on breathing through my nose. I breathe very slowly and I do it in such a way that it’s actually quite loud. Remember, I have constricted my tongue in the rear of my mouth, and I also constrict my nasal passages.

When I usually breathe, most of the “action” takes place inside my nose, and it’s quiet. When I inhale, I feel and hear it in the front of my nostrils. When I do nasal breathing, I focus my attention on the breath at the back of my nose, and in my nasal passages, and I breathe slowly while “constricting” (I don’t actually know if it’s possible to do that or not) my nasal passages and causing the air to make a rasping, rushing sound as it passes through.

I also count my breaths and take them very slowly — 1 – 2 – 3 – 4… and release them very slowly — 1 – 2 – 3 – 4.

This nasal breathing gives me something else to hear (that’s closer and more immediate) than the drill or pick, and it’s totally controlled by me. If I do it right and I put my full focus on my nasal breathing, I can all but block out the sound of the drill.

Conscious Relaxation
While I’m focusing my attention on my breathing and keeping my tongue in position, I can still get tense. My body has a mind of its own, sometimes, and no matter how engaged my mind is in keeping my tongue and breathing “just right”, I can still become physically uptight, so I need to consciously address that, too.

I focus on specific parts of my body to relax, like my feet and legs. My feet are good candidates for relaxation, because I can actually move them a little without making the person who’s working on me slip and injure me. I wiggle my toes to remind myself they’re still there, then I consciously relax them… and work my way up my body, from toes to feet to ankles to shins to knees to thighs… I’m usually so focused on my tongue and my breathing that I don’t have a lot of attention left over for my feet, but sometimes I have to focus on relaxing them, because I’m getting so tense, and I have to do something else with my brain for a while.

Stimming Relief
In a pinch, if all else fails, I find it helps to hold onto the arms of the chair and “stim” along the seams of the upholstery. I run my fingers along the bumpy edge of the seams, and I press my fingertips against the very end of the arms of the chair. Sometimes it alarms the hygienist or the dentist, but I reassure them that I’m fine. Also, they can see, from whether or not I’m stimming on the chair arm, if I’m getting agitated and taxed, and sometimes they’ll take a break. That’s a relief.

The Bottom Line
Visiting the dentist can be particularly difficult for highly sensitive folks and people on the Autistic Spectrum. But there are ways that I’ve found I can mitigate the effects of dental trauma, and keep my teeth in fine working order. My approaches are based on the assumption that even with hyper-sensitive sensory faculties, my brain can’t necessarily do everything at once, so if I deliberately focus myself on a sensation/experience of my choosing, I can “block out” the necessary evil of dentist visits. It’s taken me 40+ years to figure this out completely, but I now know that if I’m totally, wholly focused with all my undivided attention on one specific set of experiences, I can get through a trip to the dentist in one piece.

This approach has worked for me, many times. I continue to improve (and I continue to procrastinate and cancel dentist appointments, which is a really bad habit of mine that I need to break). But when I cannot avoid the dentist anymore, at least I have some coping mechanisms that help me get through that odious experience in one piece.

In Conclusion
I hope this brief work has given you a sense of what some of us Aspies go through at the dentist. I hope it heightens your sensitivity around what drives us over the edge, and what may help you and/or your Aspie kid to visit the dentist as regularly as possible.

In the end, I believe that we all have our “stuff” we need to get through… our challenges, our shortcomings, our foibles, our hurdles. Just because some of us have traumatic difficulties with the dentist doesn’t mean we’re crazy or deliberately trying to sabotage our health and well-being — we’re just really, really sensitive and we require different strategies to be successful.

Acknowledgments

Tremendous thanks goes to Temple Grandin for her amazing contributions to our understanding of sensory issues on the Autistic Spectrum. I’ve never met her, but her work has truly changed my life.

Olga Bogdashina deserves a big Thank You, as well, for her groundbreaking work on sensory issues among Asperger’s and Autistic individuals. She’s done us all a tremendous service in helping us understand the physicality of the Autistic Spectrum.

Thanks also goes to my friends and family who have persisted in loving and accepting me, through all the ups and downs over the years — many of which I can directly trace back to sensory issues.

Thanks also goes to N and Dr. R, my hygienist and dentist in the Big City, who was the first individual sensitive and sensible enough to not rush me through my dentist visits. I’m forever grateful to you both.

But most of all, thanks Mom, for hanging in there with me and making sure I visited the dentist regularly, when I was in your care. Thanks for being as resourceful and dedicated as you were, dealing with a conundrum like myself. I know it wasn’t easy, but it did pay off!

Note: This paper was begun in response to a post over at Aspergers World.

This paper is freely available for download at visualvox.wordpress.com. No payment is required.

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – Table of Contents

Below (for ease of use) are links to the sections of my work Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts.

1. Acknowledgements
2. Introduction
3. Personal Background
4. The Explanation
5. What It Means for Me
6. What It Might Mean for You
7. Conclusion

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – Acknowledgements

Tremendous thanks goes to Temple Grandin for her amazing contributions to our understanding of sensory issues on the Autistic Spectrum. I’ve never met her, but her work has truly changed my life.

Olga Bogdashina deserves a big Thank You, as well, for her groundbreaking work on sensory issues among Asperger’s and Autistic individuals. She’s done us all a tremendous service in helping us understand the physicality of the Autistic Spectrum.

Thanks also goes to my friends and family who have persisted in loving and accepting me, through all the ups and downs over the years — many of which I can directly trace back to sensory issues.

Thanks also goes to B., my barber in the Big City, who was the first individual sensitive and sensible enough to give me a decent haircut, every single time, without sending me over the edge. I’ll always have fond memories of your barbershop.

But most of all, thanks Mom, for hanging in there with me and making sure I always looked my best, when I was in your care. Thanks for not giving me unending crap about those ponytails that seemed like they’d never go away, and thanks for being as resourceful as you were, dealing with a conundrum like myself.

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – Conclusion

This is the conclusion from my latest work, Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts, which is available both as a free downloadable white paper, and as a printed, bound book. It pretty much sums up the experience.

In Conclusion

For some folks on the Autistic Spectrum, few experiences are as anxiety-producing as having one’s hair cut. Unfortunately, still fewer experiences are as necessary and as unavoidable. One’s personal appearance, in some circles, can mean the difference between acceptance and ostracism.* Whether you’re an adult or a child, first impressions often count far more than most of us would like. Indeed, in the impersonal world of everyday interaction with complete strangers, something as basic as “bad hair” can subtly disqualify both casual social butterflies and highly trained professionals from the kinds of connections and advancement that will keep their interpersonal lives and their careers afloat.

But the routine experience of having one’s hair styled is not without complications for individuals on the Autistic Spectrum. In ASD kids, the very thought of the ritual can bring on tears, tantrums, and meltdowns. And the actual experience itself can result in humiliation for parents, frustration for hairstylists, and the start of a string of “bad days” for AS kids. Even some AS adults may have such intense sensory issues during hair cutting and styling that they avoid getting a simple trim until they are all but unpresentable.

But this is not without cause. For those of us with physical sensory issues, a simple haircut can be an assault on all the senses.

One’s sense of sight can be assaulted by a salon’s fluorescent lights and distracted by the flashing of metal scissors.

One’s hearing can be thrown off by something as simple as the sound of a scissors slicing through hair, or the rapid-fire on-off switching of a hand-held hairdryer during styling. Sudden loud sounds like hairspray shooting out of a can, or the loud hiss of water in a shampoo sink can startle us. And the constant verbal banter between hairdressers and customers can be overwhelming and disorienting for non-verbal or visual thinkers.

One’s sense of smell can be overwhelmed by countless complimentary and conflicting scents of hair products and other cosmetics.

One’s sense of touch can be put on edge by the feel of hair “snipples” landing on and sticking to one’s skin, and water from a shampoo or spray bottle dampening one’s neck, face, or the edge(s) of clothing can be very disturbing and distracting. Even the sensation of hair being cut, can be disorienting.

And one’s sense of balance can be thrown off by the need to sit absolutely still, while a scissors comes dangerously close to one’s ears, nose, and eyes. The feeling that you’re falling can cause all the senses to be further heightened, thus exacerbating the stressful effect of all the other overloaded senses, combined.

Thankfully, in some cases, simple accommodations and preparation may help integrate this important activity into the flow of one’s life in ways that enhance not only one’s appearance, but one’s ability to interact with the the NT world at large. Finding a relatively quiet time to visit the hairdresser, or taking steps to lessen the physical stimuli around the one getting their hair cut, can head problems off at the pass. “Stimming” or making focused contact with certain textures or sensations, to bring one’s physical attention to a single point (instead of “flying” all around the hair-cutting space) can help, too. Every AS person is unique, and what works for one may not work for others, so some experimentation is in order. But with time and patience and persistent attention to the physical environment and the AS individual’s responses to the environment, it is possible to turn haircuts from impossible ordeals into a task that may be unpleasant, but is at least tolerable.

I hope this brief work has given you a sense of what some of us Aspies go through with haircuts. And I hope it heightens your sensitivity around what conditions can spell trouble, and what may help you or your Aspie kid to have successful haircuts. It might sound pretty bad, the way I describe the haircut experience, and you may feel a bit overwhelmed and discouraged by it, but remember that I’ve had years of intentional practice, and I’ve learned to adapt.

In the end, I believe that we all have our “stuff” we need to get through… our challenges, our shortcomings, our foibles, our hurdles. Just because not everyone has difficulties with haircuts doesn’t mean they’re any less important or less serious — they’re just different and require different strategies.

With time, and the right mix of sensitivity, imagination, practical coping skills, and determination, I’m convinced that even the most intransigent case of haircut-phobia can be overcome.

It just takes time.

And love.

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – What It Might Mean for You

Here are some more ideas about dealing with your kid’s haircuts. This is an excerpt from my latest work, Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts, which is available both as a free downloadable white paper, and as a printed, bound book.

What It Might Mean for You – Other Coping Ideas from Aspie-Land

If you’re the parent of an Aspie/sensory kid, and your child is having trouble with haircuts, you may want to pay close attention to the physical environment in which they get their hair cut. Is it loud? Is it bright? Are there lots of smells? Are there sudden sounds? Is s/he wearing clothing that’s comfortable for them? Are they well-supported where they sit?

If your kid is anything like me, having a quiet, evenly lighted (not fluorescent — those bulbs make me crazy!), non-smelly (including no plug-in “air fresheners” or other perfumes) environment, where there aren’t a lot of people, and the ones who are talk quietly and calmly and don’t demand constant interaction… that’s the ideal place to have a haircut.

If you cut their hair at home, how about if you have your child watch a video while you cut their hair? (I’ve actually heard of salons/hair stylists offering that for kids who come to them.) Give them something to occupy their senses, so they’re not overwhelmed by the grooming experience. If your kid is utterly fixated on Thomas the Tank Engine, they might not even notice the haircut while you’re giving it to them, if they’re watching a video of Thomas.

Or give them something to hold… something that has a sensation they like. When I was a kid, silky fabric soothed me like nothing else*, so being able to rub something satiny chilled me right out. Nowadays, when I need to just bite the bullet and get through a tough situation, I’ll sometimes hold a piece of Velcro (the sharp side) firmly between my fingers to focus my sensory, physical attention and get my mind off everything else around me. Or I’ll (secretly) carry around a rough piece of napkin or fabric to rub between my fingers — the rougher, the better (although I have to be careful, as I’ve sometimes actually worn down my finger pads with too much intense rubbing on rough surfaces!). I hold the wad of coarse paper in my pocket, out of sight of everyone, and chafe away. It saves my nerves, and it saves everyone around me from being vexed by my issues.

Does your child have a favorite toy or object that they refuse to part with under regular circumstances? Maybe they could hold that while they get a trim.

Maybe you can give your child something to hold and a video to watch.

I think it’s also brilliant to give kids fair warning about them getting a haircut ahead of time, and let them prepare for it mentally and emotionally. We Aspies tend to do better, if we have advance warning. Something as simple as a hug can be very uncomfortable (even painful) for us, if we don’t have a chance to prepare for it. But if we know we’re about to get a hug from someone, we can sometimes “brace for contact” and then reciprocate without looking and/or feeling uncomfortable to others.

Same thing with larger-scale unpleasant experiences — like haircuts, and more. My nephew — who is about as textbook Aspie as they come — refused to take medicine to bring down a fever… until, that is, we explained to him what was going to happen, the steps we were going to go through, what the nasty-tasting syrup was for, and we did a few “trial runs” of taking it, using some juice in a teaspoon for practice. We told him up front that the medicine tasted awful, but that’s because it’s very powerful and that’s how it needs to taste to do its important work. (My nephew actually developed an instant respect for the medicine because it was so powerful — it was something he could appreciate.) We did not sugar-coat the process or play it down, but gave him all the information he needed to prepare mentally for the experience of taking it. When the time came for his dose, he didn’t like it, but he did take it, and he started to get better. We praised him a great deal afterwards, which just made his day. He’s such a perfectionist that hearing praise for even the smallest thing really brightened him up. After that, he knew what to expect from the experience, and he knew he could succeed at it. There were no more issues around him taking his medicine, which was a very good thing.

The same sort of practice may help your Aspie kid to prepare for the inevitable discomfort and agitation of a haircut. You can tell them what it’s all for, why it’s necessary, and offer a reward afterwards. The more information we Aspies can get so we feel in control of a situation, the better. It’s not logistical difficulties that causes us distress, like with NT kids, it’s the unknown. Preparation on all levels helps us Aspies more than I can say.

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – What It Means for Me

Here’s some personal insight on what it’s like for me (a highly sensitive Aspie) to have my hair cut. It’s an excerpt from my latest work, Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts, which is available both as a free downloadable white paper, and as a printed, bound book.

What It Means for Me

Now, when I was a little girl, I wasn’t allowed to act out, (or else!) so I can’t remember having any full-on meltdowns while getting my hair cut around other people. Then again, I may have just blocked out the experience(s). I do recall, however, that my mother dreaded taking me to the salon when I was a teenager, and I dreaded going — and if I recall correctly, my mother actually told me once that our hairdresser dreaded cutting my hair as much as I dreaded her cutting it. But specific incidents aside, I do remember haircuts being very hard for me, and afterwards I was usually reeling from the experience, so I often acted out at home with wild behavior, racing around the house, jumping on furniture, beating up my younger brother, yelling and screaming and acting very “unladylike” I can assure you! Nobody around me understood what I was going through. All they knew was that I looked nice, and that’s what mattered. And the fact that I now looked so pretty and acted so ugly was difficult for my parents and people close to me to handle. Believe me, it was just as confusing and frustrating for me!

I still don’t get my hair cut as often as I probably should — but I’m aware of it, so I make a point of taking steps to get myself to the barber before I start to look like my friend Abby. It won’t help my career any, to look like I’ve been living on a desert island. And it doesn’t do much for my social life, either — and I need all the help I can get, with that part of my life!

I now go to a small barber shop where there aren’t a lot of hair products around, and I go in off hours so I don’t have to interact with a lot of people. I don’t mind waiting in line among men with their Popular Mechanics, Scientific American, and Sports Illustrated magazines. It’s a small price to pay for sensory relief. A regular women’s salon is too overpowering for me, in just about every physical way. Now, I’ve often thought about letting my hair grow long and not even bothering with haircuts, but it’s not an option. I actually tried it a few times, when I was 13, before I got it cut. As I mentioned, I wore the same pig tails from when I was 7 till I was about 13, and the other kids at school started telling me how I could change my hairstyle. I took them seriously, and I decided to try to wear my hair long. I learned some important things in the process, however.

First, there’s too much friggin’ hair! It was all over the place. I have very fine, thick hair, and I found the little strands getting stuck all over the place — in my eyes, in my mouth… It drove me crazy! I tried pulling it back in a single ponytail, but that was still out of control. I just wasn’t well-coordinated enough to keep my ponytail in place. I kept bumping into things and knocking the hair loose and having it flying all over the place. And I would also end up catching my hair on things, or getting snagged. I’d be walking past something — a cupboard, for example — and I’d get snagged on the handle or a corner or something, and my hair would fly all over.

Also, when my hair was longer, my sensory issues were actually worse than when I would intermittent haircuts. It’s still the case — I feel everything through my hair, and I find myself having to hold my head more still, in order to keep my balance. The weight of the heavy hair (and I have a lot of it) throws me off, and puts me off balance. And I’m not dainty and coordinated enough to hold my head just-so, and keep my hairstyle in place. Of course, I could have just tied my hair back in a bun, but that would have made me look like a little old lady, and anyway, I didn’t want to have to keep that tightly-fitted bun in place. I was such an active — and often uncoordinated — kid, that any attempts I made at keeping a lot of hair neatly in place, went the way of the dinosaurs — but much quicker than their demise, I can assure you.

So, as much as I wanted to avoid having to get constant haircuts, not getting haircuts proved to be more of a challenge than I wanted to deal with each day. I just gave it up. I sometimes think about doing it again, and dispensing with haircuts completely. But then I remember my past experiences, and I head for the barbershop.

Yes, haircuts can still be a challenge for me, but they’re things I need to “tough out” on a regular basis, so I’ve developed some pretty effective coping mechanism. While I’m in the barber chair, I find that if my senses are directed somewhere other than the haircut, I can actually do it. I still tend to get agitated by the whole experience; I’m keyed up and distracted by all the sensory input, so I concentrate deliberately on my breathing. And I consciously relax. Sometimes I can’t even feel my arms and legs. So, for the relatively short time I’m in the barber chair (my haircuts usually take only 15 minutes or so), I concentrate really hard on my breathing… I count my breaths — 1-2-3-4… 1-2-3-4… I do this thing I call “nasal breathing” (which I also do at the dentist), where I focus on breathing heavily through my nose, so that my breath echoes throughout my head and ears, and it distracts me from what’s going on around me. Sometimes it sounds odd (which makes it a better coping mechanism for the dentist’s office, which is way too loud, to begin with), but it’s a useful last resort.

I also deliberately put my attention on my arms and legs, relaxing them and tightening them and wiggling my toes and fingers. I deliberately, consciously try to relax…. I fiddle with my eyeglasses under the sheet… while I keep my eyes closed until the hair stops falling… and when I can open my eyes (which makes it easier to keep my balance), I focus on the glass cylinder with the blue sanitizing solution sitting on the barber’s work counter — the one that has all the long thin combs in it — I count the combs and try to imagine what ingredients are in the solution… all the while trying to maintain polite conversation and act like a regular, neurotypical person.

At times, it’s an effort, just to interact normally and not withdraw and act autistic and make everyone in the place really nervous, but I can do it.

Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts – The Explanation

Below is an excerpt from my latest work, Crossing the Hurdles of Haircuts, which is available both as a free downloadable white paper, and as a printed, bound book.

This excerpt explains in detail the different sensory experiences I have/had when getting my hair cut. I think it explains a whole lot about why things were so difficult for me…

The Explanation

As you read this, you may wonder at all the drama involved in something as simple as getting your hair trimmed. You may also be interested to know why some of us cannot abide having our hair cut — and sometimes have a full-on meltdown as a result. I can assure you, there are very good reasons for all of this. Here’s my experience and the explanation behind it.

I couldn’t stand getting my hair cut when I was a kid because:

The sound of my hair being cut was deafening. It may sound unlikely, but my hearing has always been so sensitive, I hear even the finest vibrations far more acutely than most people, so the physical experience of getting my hair cut was audibly traumatic. I could hear the scissors blades cutting through my hair in loud rasping sounds.

To give you an idea of what it’s like, put your fingers in your ears, plug them in tight, and then clear your throat with a raspy, non-vocal rush of air through your constricted throat — like you’re clearing sinus drainage from just behind your tongue at the back of your mouth. That’s roughly what it was like for me, every time a clump of hair was snipped. The sound was sharp — sharp!!! And loud. It was a loud, sharp, raspy, thundering crunch that reverberated through my head.

Now, not all loud crunching sounds were unpleasant to me, when I was little. In fact, some of them could be quite soothing. The little bits of celery my mother put in the tuna salad sandwiches she packed for me for lunch helped me feel centered in the school cafeteria. There were literally hundreds of kids in that cafeteria at one time — I went to an “early childhood center” that housed thousands of kids from K4 through second grade for all-day school (even in kindergarten), and the vast, cavernous cafeteria was always teeming with what seemed like wild, unbridled activity to me. In the midst of what felt like total chaos and traumatic sensory overload to my already taxed system (I was usually tired, as I was bused an hour each way, through some pretty rough parts of the little city where we lived, in a school bus filled with rambunctious, screaming, fighting, jumping, jostling kids. I also attended all-day school from kindergarten, on.), the crunching of celery bits in my ears blocked out all the other sounds and gave me something immediate to focus on. The coarse texture and sound of celery thundering in my ears literally helped me keep my sanity in the midst of that mid-day sensory onslaught.

Unfortunately, though, the “crunch” of getting my hair cut was not like that of chewing celery. It was not a sound that kept me sane in the midst of chaos. Quite the contrary — it added to my sense of overwhelm. The worst thing was, I didn’t understand why it did. I felt terribly self-conscious at the same time that I was auditorily uncomfortable.

The sound of the scissor blades that were cutting my hair also put me on edge. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have sensory and/or audible pitch issues, but the sound of scissors blades rubbing together was very disorienting — and disconcerting. It’s not that the sound was unpleasant — far from it. There was actually something soothing about the sound — soft and quiet and steady.

But the pitch range of the blades sliding across each other was one that was hard for me to physically locate. I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, if it was close or far. And that frightened me. The scissors were razor sharp, after all, and I was dreadfully afraid that I might move in the wrong direction or bump into them, and be cut. Because the sound of the scissors blades was so “feathering” and high-pitched, and because the scissors moved around a lot while I was having my hair cut, I was constantly on edge, trying to “track” the location of those sharp (and deadly — or so it felt) cutting blades.

Try as I might to ignore the sound of the hair-cutting, when I was a kid, it was audibly troubling for me. What’s more, I couldn’t get away from it. I couldn’t stop it. I was stuck in place, while that awful sound was just grinding into my ears. It might seem a bit extreme, but as a kid, that’s how I auditorily experienced having my hair cut. I’m just glad no one used a clipper on my hair. The sound of small motors was even more difficult for me to handle, than the sound of scissors blades. It might have driven me over the edge!

The physical sensation of getting my hair cut was disturbing. A lot of Aspie folks talk about how light touch is very uncomfortable, while firm touch is tolerable, and the touch involved in hair-cutting is usually quite light — which makes it hard for someone like me to take. The sensation of my hair being lifted away from my head and then cut off was so distracting for me, it was physically disorienting. On the one hand, feeling the hair lifted away from my head felt good. It actually felt soothing to have the weight lifted from my scalp, which has always been very sensitive. I could actually feel the movement of each hair.* In fact, my hair helped me sense the world around me, much like a cat’s whiskers help it to feel its way through the dark. And feeling the weight of my hair helped me to keep my balance (I say more about that later on). The subtle sensation of shifting hair helped me to orient myself physically in my immediate surroundings, which was so important for me — and is for many other Aspie kids and adults.

So, when the hair was snipped from my head, and I lost contact with the immediate space around me, it was hard to adjust. I couldn’t feel my surroundings in quite the same way any more. I didn’t have my same hair weight and sensation to help me orient. When the hair was cut off, I lost that type of contact, and I felt like I’d lost my direct connection with the physical world around me. This was — and still is — physically distressing for my very fine sensitivities. I tried to not let it bother me when I was younger, but it was hard. It still is.

Another problem I had was with the physical contact. I could never tell exactly where the person cutting my hair was going to touch me next, what part of my head would be pushed this way or that, forward or back or to the side, or what hair would be lifted and snipped. I couldn’t have my eyes open (or I might get snipples in them), so I was constantly braced for contact, which stressed me even more. The hairdresser sensed it and this made her very uncomfortable. She ended up walking on eggshells, not sure how to adjust me properly, so she could get a good cut. This problem persisted with hairdressers well into my adulthood.

My mom had less of a ginger approach. She was my mom, after all, and she didn’t have to be quite as dainty with me, with concerns about upsetting customers or their parents. Whenever my mother cut my hair, she would move me around or pull me back into the chair or touch me on the arm or shoulder or head, and I experienced most of that contact as pain. A significant number of folks on the Autistic Spectrum have this condition of experiencing simple touch as pain, and I’ve got that, too. Even today, with 43 years of life experience behind me, some days (especially when I’m tired or my system is overtaxed) I’m as sensitive as ever; the simplest of contacts feels like being slammed with a hot poker.

When I was was a kid and I was stressed or ultra-sensitive (usually whenever I was getting my hair cut), even a light touch felt like a blow. Now, for the record, my mother did not intentionally hit me or deliberately physically abuse me when she cut my hair. But the experience was physically very painful for me. It really hurt to be touched, when I was in a “bad space”, so being moved and positioned was like being hit over and over again — from all directions and without warning. knew that I needed to sit still and behave. But sometimes I literally could not. I was just beside myself with anxiety and actual physical pain, and I squirmed and fidgeted till she was beside herself with frustration — which didn’t make her any more gentle.

I didn’t have much time to focus on the pain, though, because the feel of the little pieces of hair on my face tickling me drove me nuts! They got in my nose, in my mouth, in my eyes. That really frightened me — they were fine and prickly and felt sharp to me. But I couldn’t brush them off — I kept trying to, but they were stuck to me. Plus, I kept getting in the way of whoever was cutting my hair, which irritated and frustrated them and prolonged the agony for everyone involved — me, the hairdresser and/or my mother. To this day, I cannot stand the feel of those little pieces of cut hair on my face and neck. And when the clippings get under my collar and into my clothing and rub me, it distracts me from whatever I’m doing and puts me on edge because I can’t get away from it. Even when I shower after a haircut, I sometimes can’t get it all off.

The feel of wet hair and skin agitated me. It always has. Ever since I was a very young girl, having wet skin — especially my face — has made me uncomfortable and agitated. The feel of wetness “hijacks” my senses and I find myself expending a lot of extra energy, sorting through all the sensory experiences around me, through the “sensory haze” that wet skin produces. To this day, I have a very hard time tolerating the feel of water on my face. Even when I go swimming, which I love to do, I need to dry off my face as soon as I get out of the water.

I’ve always had sensitivity issues around water. It makes me uncomfortable and nervous to have damp skin. In fact, it’s harder for me to have damp skin, than wet. There’s something about having a thin film of water that’s just barely moist that’s distracting for me and puts me on edge. And having damp clothing, especially cuffs and collars, is distressing for me, as well. It just chafes and irritates me to no end, and I cannot escape it.

When I was little and my mother cut my hair at home, sensitivity to dampness wasn’t much of an issue for me. She didn’t wet my hair when she cut it, but trimmed it when it was completely dry. But when I eventually went back to salons, I found that having my hair shampooed — or even just wetted down from a spray bottle — agitated me. Now, having my hair washed by another person was very pleasurable for me. The problems started if the shampoo girl got water on my face or was clumsy with the spray hose.

And my discomfort only got worse when the shampoo was over, and I was dispatched to the chair with a towel around my head. The feel of water running down my neck made me itch and squirm, and the sensation of a damp collar was very distracting. So getting a shampoo at the hair salon and then sitting still in a chair while the water dripped down my neck onto my collar bothered me intensely. It was bad enough that the little snipples of hair were stuck all over me, but damp skin and clothing aggravated me even more.

I still have issues with having my hair wetted down with a spray bottle. The sudden blast of droplets of water takes me by surprise, and the feel of damp skin at the back of my neck puts me on edge. I do pity the barber I go to now — he probably has no idea why I jump and get tense when he wets down my hair, and I think he’s getting a complex, thinking he’s done something wrong. But we both survive each haircut I get. Maybe I’ll explain this all to him, someday. He’d probably appreciate it.

I constantly felt like I was going to lose my balance. Sitting absolutely still in the chair was hard for me. The longer I was in the chair and the longer the haircut lasted, the harder it got. I felt like I was going to fall over, and I was afraid I’d be cut by the scissors. I was intent on holding still, but I was so distracted by the feel of my hair being cut and falling on my face and neck and the sound of the scissors cutting my hair and the sensation of my hair being cut away from my head, that I usually felt nauseous. I literally felt sick, whenever I got my hair cut. When I’m off balance, to this day, I have to hold my head a certain way in order to feel right again — but moving my head this way and that was definitely not what the person cutting my hair wanted me to do. I remember many an exclamation of frustration and consternation, when I would move at just the wrong time, and the hairdresser would either cut my hair wrong, or lose her grip on the hair she held between her fingers.

Nobody seemed to understand what I was going through. Indeed, if you don’t have balance and/or sensory issues, it’s probably next to impossible to grasp the impact that such instability has on your head, your attention, your stomach. Just imagine what it would be like to ride a tilt-a-whirl for three hours, then get off and have someone tell you that you have to sit up straight and hold absolutely still for half an hour, or you’ll be cut with sharp scissors and/or end up looking really awful. That’s what it was like for me. But whenever I tried to adjust my head to regain my balance, I’d get out of position, and whoever was cutting my hair would get very upset with me. I couldn’t help it — I was just trying to stay upright. And not throw up.

All the talking in hair salons made me crazy. For some reason, everyone wanted me to talk to them when I was getting my hair cut, which made me deeply uncomfortable and upset. I wasn’t much good at small talk conversation to begin with (I still have difficulties, though I’m getting better with practice), but adding an unfamiliar hairdresser’s shop to the mix was even worse. There were always lots of strangers who wanted to talk to me, or who were talking loudly in the background (over the sound of the hairdryers and other equipment). I couldn’t interact very well with anyone — the hairdresser(s) were always so verbal and moved quickly from one topic to another, and I had a hard time keeping up with what they were saying. I’ve always been a very visual thinker, and I process information in conversations by using visual images rather than words to understand concepts. That means I have to see what people are talking about in order to understand — and respond. But so much of what was discussed at the hairdresser’s was unfamiliar to me, I didn’t have “visuals” of the things these women were discussing — acquaintances I’d never met and interpersonal scenarios I wasn’t familiar with and “girl’ things that always baffled me, to begin with. I didn’t understand what the women around me were saying when they talked about people I didn’t know and places I’d never seen, so I just got left behind. I was trying to process/calm all the sensory input and keep my balance, after all.

And because I couldn’t talk to them, the women at the hairdresser’s thought I was being difficult and stubborn and “stuck up,” and they were uncomfortable with me, which agitated me even more. They became increasingly chatty (nervous chatter), and I had to work harder to understand what they were saying, which just made my self-consciousness worse.

The smells of the hair styling products drove me to distraction. The smells were all too strong! There were too many different scents, from the smell of hair styling gel… to hairspray… to shampoo… to conditioners… to permanent wave solution… to perfumes the women wore… even the scent of hair singed by the curling irons… The sum total was an overwhelming olfactory assault. The hair salon smelled of metallic chemicals and sickly-sweet plastic gunk. The women smelled of body odor and deodorant and nail polish and nail polish remover and mascara and blush and lipstick. And it all made me feel ill.

The worst part was, I was supposed to like all those smells — everyone else in the salon seemed to enjoy them, and they encouraged me to smell the perfumes and shampoos along with them, which made my head whirl. I developed such a complex over it all. What was wrong with me? I wondered. I was having such a hard time sorting out all the sensations — the feel of the hair being cut and falling on me, the sounds of everyone talking, the presence of many strangers I didn’t know (and who I was afraid I’d act stupid in front of), the sound of the scissors on my hair, the need to keep balanced, so I wouldn’t get cut… Having to smell hair products on top of it, added olfactory insult to sensory injury.

The salon was always too bright. Of course, people who cut hair have to have enough light to see what they’re doing, but for me, it was too much light. Fluorescent too — very glaring! I can get sensorily overwhelmed even more quickly, if bright light is combined with loud sounds and strong smells, so the hairdresser salon was not a friendly place for me. It was just so overwhelming. There was no escaping it… Bright lights overhead and the sudden flash of scissors reflecting colors and bright flashes…

I think my mother realized that the lights were too much for me, as I recall her cutting my hair in near darkness, at times. She would draw the blinds around the dining room and sit me down and work in shadows, snipping as quickly as she could, while I held still for as long as I could. She may have drawn the blinds because she wanted to block out any distractions from the street outside (I was very easily distracted), but the darkness calmed me, as well as not having a clear view to any outdoor activity within my immediate range of vision.

The salon was always too loud. As I said above, all the talking made me crazy, but the sound of the machinery was even worse. I had a hard time with appliance motor sounds when I was a kid; I couldn’t tolerate the vacuum cleaner or my mother’s blender for the longest time, and my dad’s circular saw sent me over the edge. But in a hair salon, it was the worst of all worlds. There was the sudden turning on and off of hair dryers without warning, the roar of the large over-the-head dryers that howled and growled for an indefinite amount of time.

Besides the the machines, there were plenty of other sounds to process: the sudden hisssss of hairspray shooting out of the can (the cloud of intense odor didn’t help either)… the soft sweeping of the broom that collected fallen hair… the sharp hisssss of water rushing from the ends of shampoo sprayers, cascading over heads, and splashing into the shampoo sinks… the crack of gum chewed by hairstylists… the rustling of turning pages in magazines read by women whose heads were covered by plastic and/or towels and/or hair dryers… and the sudden yelling back and forth between women who had to make themselves heard over the din of the salon.

And it wasn’t just the noise that bothered me, but also how the noise was managed. Unexpected, arbitrary lengths of time to run machines was an issue, I specifically remember. I recall asking my hairdresser if she couldn’t just turn the large dryers on and off on a schedule, and she laughed and told me she never knew how long she’d need them on. It could be a few minutes, it could be an hour. I never knew when someone was going to turn on a hair dryer or some other machine, and the pitch of the hairdryers was so loud and shrill, it pierced my ears. I get tense just thinking about it now.

And that, dear reader, is a relatively brief overview of the sensory challenges this Aspie kid had with getting my hair cut. When I think back, I almost wish I’d given up haircuts for all time. But as I discuss a little later, that wasn’t an option for me.

Welcome to the Autistic Interior

It’s great to be here. After a whole lot of time spent more or less in the dark, things are starting to make sense. This is where I try to fit it all together… out loud.

I’m a 43-year-old self-diagnosed Aspie who tends to be more autistic, the more extreme my physical symptoms are. When my physical symptoms are chilled out, I just register with most folks as a shy geek who has to be prompted to come out of my shell. I prefer to keep to myself, and I credit my self-sheltering with keeping me as sane and functional as I am. And I am.

I have a lot of sensory issues that I deal with each day — most of them invisible to the outside world, and not very well-understood by people not in my skin. These range from heavy-duty vestibular upset… to daily tactile problems with fabrics and auditory problems with hearing too much or not enough… to a weirdly irregular sense of smell… and so on. More on that later.

I’ve been what some would call “autistic” for as long as I can remember, and it’s bought me a whole lot of pain and woe, so I’ve learned to conceal it with the best of ‘em. I can’t see why my life should be limited by other people’s ignorance. It’s just not logical. So, I conceal my issues as best I can and “pretend to be normal” with the best of ‘em (don’t we all do that, on some level?).

I’ve been in hiding — to the best of my ability — my entire life. And I have my concealment to thank for the fact that I’m living an ostensibly normal life. I have a job, a career, a spouse of more than 15 years, a house, a mortgage, two cars (which would be in the garage, if the pile of stuff were hauled away), a few friends, a great resume, a local political career, active interests… and so on. I’ve developed most of them in isolation, and I’ve trotted them out main when I’ve felt okay.

The idea of living my life in full view of everyone is extremely stressful, because of my past history of merciless bullying and teasing at the hands of friends and family and strangers alike. I tend to keep to myself, because stepping out into the outside world is not particularly safe for me.

Now, though, I have this blog where I can speak anonymously. I do feel it’s important to speak up about what it’s like to be autistic (or Asperger’s) in the neurotypical (NT) world. There’s just too much disinformation being spread around, and there’s just too much “intervention” being pursued that might not ultimately be that helpful. Some of it might even be hurtful.

My intention with this blog is to give Autism and Asperger’s Syndrome a(nother) voice that breaks the “mold” that the scientific and medical communities have formed around folks like me — visual thinkers with specific physiological issues, which result in peculiar behaviors that confuse and alarm people who aren’t like us.

I’m not a hazard to you, and my soul hasn’t been snatched by this “dread disease”. I’m actually a very normal person, if you disregard the things that make me highly atypical. But even the things that make me highly atypical equip me for life in this world in unique and significant ways, which help everyone around me — including NT folks who would just as soon see me put away.

For the record, I will not be put away. It’s happened too many times to people, just because they were stranger than their families, friends, and general practitioners could tolerate… and because they had needs they could not articulate adequately. What a shame, that one should be locked up and shot full of pharmaceutical concoctions, simply because one doesn’t primarily process concepts by typical verbal means… That’s not going to happen to me. It didn’t happen to me. My slightly delayed (but very enthusiastic and idiosyncratic) speech development probably saved my ass from being committed at a very young age. I’ll write more on that later, but for now, welcome to my world — the Autistic Interior.