My Weird Little Secret Ritual

Let’s talk about something incredibly niche, deeply satisfying, slightly embarrassing, and absolutely essential to my daily functioning as an autistic person:

Cutting off my split ends.

I have other stims, but none of them hold a candle to the weird, unexplainably magical, hyper-fixating satisfaction of:

Inspecting my hair strand by strand and snipping off the split ends.

 I’m doing it to self-regulate something.  Anxiety? Sensory overload? The unbearable chaos of existence? The passage of time?

Whatever it is, my brain says: Find scissors. Find split ends. Do not stop.

It’s like picking at a thread in the universe and convincing myself I can untangle reality if I just get that one perfect snip.

Some people unwind with wine. Some people do yoga. I stare intensely at my hair in bright lighting and surgically remove every damaged strand like I’m performing precision micro-surgery.

It’s become a full ritual:

1. Locate split end.

2. Tilt it toward the light.

3. Stare at it.

4. Snip.

5. Feel a deep, cellular-level sense of peace.

6. Repeat for the next three hours.

I do it everywhere, but also nowhere. Because no one must know.

At home? Absolutely.

During Teams calls? Oh yes.

While parked in my car on lunch break like a weird little hair-obsessed goblin? I used to, but not so much anymore.

While driving? I wish!

This is my secret. I've been doing this ever since I can remember. It's my forbidden self-care.  My weird little coping strategy hidden beneath layers of social pretending.

Because honestly? It sounds bizarre if I explain it out loud:

“Hi, yes, I regulate my nervous system by grooming my own hair like a fussy Victorian parlor cat, thanks.”

You might assume I must be obsessed with beauty. Nope. 

It’s not about looking good. It’s about the process. The texture. The focus. The tiny “snip!” sound. The subtle satisfaction of turning frayed chaos into clean order.

It’s the perfect autistic storm:

Repetitive motion? Check.

Close visual detail work? Check.

Mild sensory reward? Check.

Deep sense of control over something small when everything else is overwhelming and loud and unpredictable? DOUBLE CHECK.

It’s my therapy. It’s my meditation. It’s also why I carry tiny scissors in my bag like a chaotic, neurodivergent Mary Poppins.

So if you see me gazing lovingly at the ends of my hair like they’re about to tell me the secrets of the universe, just know—I’m regulating. I’m coping. I’m thriving in the most autistic way possible.

And when I say I’m excited to go home after work?

I don’t mean to relax.
I don’t mean to party.
I mean to sit in my nest and turn on a comfort show I’ve watched 37 times, and enter a blissful trance of follicular restoration.

Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

P.S. No, I will not cut your split ends. That’s personal. Get your own scissors.