I Don't Haphephobia, It's Just You

I've worked for 20 years in a field where unwanted physical contact is not just exceptionally rare, it's the sort of thing that shuts down the building until the investigation is concluded. 

I don't think it's such a bad thing, to work in the sort of environment where personal space is not just respected, but safeguarded to the n-th degree.  Not when the safety and dignity of children is at stake. The wonderful side-effect of the situation is that the professionals also reap the benefits. We're there to model the behaviours we want to encourage, which means everyone's bubble of personal space is recognized and validated.

Just a bit of clarity on this point, everyone has these proximity zones. It's not weird or phobic to have differing comfortable distances in mind when speaking and interacting with people of differing levels of familiarity. For instance, I will allow Husband to take an onion ring from my plate. Once.

It's just that I'm liable to use bear spray on the guy at the bus stop if he tries it.

So the last 20 years has really been like rolling safely down a mountain in a hamster ball made of human resource posters and fluffy pillows because no one touches anyone, anywhere, ever.

I've recently been in situations where my bubble has been popped, both at work and socially, and I'm torn. It's an awkward spot to find myself in. On the one hand, there is nothing sinister or malicious about the physical contact, but on the other GET YOUR HANDS OUT OF MY HAIR. WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING MY HAIR? IN WHAT UNIVERSE IS THIS NORMAL BEHAVIOUR?

Let me take a poll...

Raise your hand if you know me very, very well.

Now run that hand through my hair. Go ahead. Play with  my pony tail. Tuck a strand behind my ear. Brush my bangs out of my eyes. Really get in there.

How do you feel? Need an adult, and a social worker? I know I do and I'm sure we've known each other for at least a decade.

To combat this probably innocent but still completely and absolutely inappropriate behaviour at work, I've not disagreed with the notion that I have a fear of physical contact. I've implied that my bubble of personal space extends out from my body in every direction to a distance of roughly Neptune. It seems to have worked because it's been days since anyone has tried to French Braid my hair while I'm sitting at my desk. Honestly, who are these people?

That covers the bases while I'm forced to sit at a desk with my back to an entire room filled with tricophiliacs. Google that at your peril and on your own head be it.

Now someone explain all of Quebec to me.

Nothing in my life so far has prepared me for the experience of meeting for drinks and Montreal Smoked Meat sandwiches (the most seductive of the smoked meats) and having someone pat, pet, smooth, stroke and otherwise touch my hair while cooing ootsie-cutsie Joual into their bieres. 

I'm not one to tar an entire population with the same brush I used to paint a big "Non!" on just one of it's representatives, but when pressed for an explanation about this behaviour and their refusal to heed my vocal cease and desist, I'm told, "it's nothing, they are just French."

So.

My request stands: someone explain all of Quebec to me. 

And while you do that, I'll be over here ordering a set of hair clippers because if this shit doesn't sort itself out pretty soon I'll remove what is, apparently, the biggest freak magnet this side of the Laurentians.