An Ordinary Thing

During a Zoom workshop last week, I paid attention, took notes - and stared at my own face in a Partridge Family-style, tile box for 2 hours. It was obvious; I needed a haircut. Not next week, the way a reasonable person might think. Right there and then, in the middle of that meeting. I was sure I would look better and 20 years younger with shorter hair. Self-awareness is a good thing, but 2 hours of self-reflection, like looking into a high-powered make-up mirror. Revelatory.

During the break, when everyone turned off their video and grabbed a snack, I grabbed the scissors and cut my hair. Two inches. Which is why, first thing this morning, I frantically texted Ashley, an exceptional “hair magician” at Pixie Salon in Albany, to see if she could get me in for an “emergency” appointment to clean things up.

Why are we so attached to hair? A rhetorical question, more accurately our hair is attached to us. Most of us. My good-looking son, blessed at birth with a perfectly shaped bean, started shaving his head years ago when he began balding, a common choice. I’m grateful to have hair, but we’re never happy; it’s too thick, too thin, too curly, too straight, too long, too short.

My meticulous ex-husband scheduled a haircut every two weeks. Every 2 weeks 6 hours and 27 seconds to be exact, he was back in that chair at Alex’s Barber Shop in Loudonville, a vintage stripped barber pole out front. My kids liked to laugh about it, but John was fastidious.

“I got a haircut,” a frequent breaking news alert. It’s a good thing he told me, because I could never tell. “Looks good!” I lied. His hair never looked any different before, during, or after a cut. Never. He never woke up with “bed-head.” He had chiseled Ken-doll good looks and perfect hair. Every single strand in place, nothing moved, not even in strong wind.

Some civilizations tell time based on the rotation of the Earth around the sun. John kept time based on when he was due for his next haircut.

Alex respected John’s regimented routine, and when John went into nursing home care at a young age due to Parkinson’s, Alex went with him. Not overnight, but every two weeks 6 hours and 27 seconds, he and his cutting tools were there, like clockwork, even in the snow. Even after John’s fingernails and hair stopped growing. Every 2 weeks.

To John, appearances mattered for him, his family, and even Snick, our Sheltie, whose whiskers he trimmed on a regular basis (an action neither Snick nor I supported). The night before Picture Day, I was at the nursing home caring for my mom. John thought our daughter’s bangs were too long. He grabbed the scissors and trimmed them, then again and again, to even things out. He should have used a level.

“Mom, look what dad did – fix it!” her tear-stained face bright red, her bangs practically north of her hairline. “Oh, it’s not that bad.” I lied, a familiar hair-related behavior in this family.

As a mom, I could fix many things, but I couldn’t grow hair on someone’s head, not overnight. After she fell asleep, I grabbed some scotch tape, stretched her bangs down as far as I could; when that didn’t work, I grabbed the duct tape. Despite their boastful claims, duct tape doesn’t adhere to the tear-dampened forehead of a sleeping child.

After that, scissors were banned in our house except the child-safe ones in the craft bag. For a long time, I was sure that was what led to our divorce (it wasn’t).

Beauty pageant participants and plenty of others muse about elusive solutions to world peace; the rest of us wonder if we should go longer or shorter, lighter or darker, or where to put the part. A haircut may seem like an ordinary thing, but a good or bad hair day can change the course of human history. That isn’t hyperbole.

Just ask my daughter.

An ordinary thing can make a big difference

Life As i See It