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Don't Mind Me: Just A Bit Sappy


Don't it always seem to go

That you don't know what you've got

'Til it's gone -- Joni Mitchell, "Big Yellow Taxi"


The other night, I looked at my husband as he was busy doing something. I don't remember what. What I do remember is the sadness that washed over and through me like menopausal angst coursing through my veins. I would sorely miss the guy when he's gone.


I'm not the kind who dwells on death. Still, as I approach my seventy-fifth birthday and my husband turns a year older--not to mention with Cobid 19 and the risks to us seniors--it's impossible not to think about and prepare for the time when he may well predecease me. I hate that word predecease but after spending time with an estate planning lawyer and bringing our wills and estates and all the jazz up to date, the word has become part of my vocabulary.


So, there I was, looking at the man I'd known for forty-eight years and counting, already missing him. Sure, he can be a pain in the butt. And his jokes and puns? Well, they can drive me crazy. And, yes, there are those flares of temper that can make me want to escape for good. But maybe more than other times, this pandemic and sheltering in place have helped me realize how important he is in my life and how I'd miss the hell out of him if he were to predecease me. (There's that word again.) And I'm sure that with the threat of death all around us, we treasure what we have even more.


But enough of the maudlin stuff. Let's get on with it: Have you used your get-out-of-jail-free card to make a beeline to your favorite hair salon? In today's New York Times, Elizabeth Paton writes:


And yet, across the United States, customers are clamoring to fix gray roots, shaggy beards and chipped nails in reopened salons after months in lockdown, despite stark changes to how these services can now be offered. How do you cut hair behind someone’s ears when they’re also wearing a mask? Doesn’t matter, people are doing it.

And, yes, I'm one of those people. The owners of the salon I frequent sent an email detailing all the steps they are taking to create a safe space. I didn't see plastic barriers between each chair listed but, otherwise, they seemed to have checked all the boxes. Man, I hope so. And just this morning, I've decided to spend the time it takes for the dye to do its thing in my car which, hopefully, I can park close to the front door. I mean, the image of me with my hair sticking up like the crown on the Statue of Liberty and the pieces of shiny foil wrapped around clumps of my hair will be enough to send any passerby into fits of laughter or screams of fright. But I don't care. I'm staying put in my car until the bitter end.


What price beauty, right?









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