I couldn’t figure out where to get a haircut.
When I was first divorced, so many years ago, I got stuck on this. I also lost the capacity to return the glass soda bottles to the grocery and change light bulbs. Those were things I could physically do but I hadn’t done them for so long, it seemed inconceivable to do them. So the bottles stacked up in their cases in the back hall and the lights went out one by one.
I remember deciding one night to have my eight-year old daughter cut my hair. My hair was very long, down my back, and it bothered me greatly that there were split ends. Split ends were a big thing then and one didn’t want to have them. So I handed her our only pair of scissors and we went in the bathroom where she stood on the rim of the bathtub while I stood facing the mirror.
All she had to do was to cut straight across. Which she did remarkably well but at a slight angle. Somewhat more than slight. But it wasn’t her fault. I had no business asking an eight-year old to cut my hair, to put that responsibility on her only because I couldn’t figure out where to get my hair cut.
I thought of that time tonight when I looked in the mirror and saw that my hair, always very, very short, was growing in a way that could no longer be coaxed into a longer facsimile of my normal look. I have clippers – new ones that work beautifully – but it is unfathomable to me to cut my own hair or, worse, have the other adult in the house do it. Nor am I ready to go to my hairdresser of twenty years, maybe sometime but not soon.
So I am stuck again but there is no stack of soda bottles waiting to be returned and so far all the lights are on.