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OMG! Don't Let My Husband Cut My Hair





The prospect of my husband cutting my hair during this pandemic is downright frightening. When I mentioned the possibility to friends, the response was unanimous: "No"! But what am I (and millions of other women) supposed to do? My bangs are compromising my sightlines. The hair across my neckline is beginning to creep under my ears like a garter snake twisting and crawling. And the side section of my coif meant to hide behind my ears is just scraggly enough to get caught in either my glasses or my protective mask or both.


Now, my husband is a photographer and understands form and symmetry. And he was, back in the day, a painter. He can cut paper in a straight line, trim mats around photos before framing, slice a piece of wood like a pro. But my hair?


This sheltering in place has made me realize just how much I depend on people other than my husband or myself when it comes to all kinds of nonessentials like cutting my hair. I have good health insurance and a bit of disposable cash. (I was going to say income, but I'm retired. Mostly.) During this pandemic, all bets are off. Last night, soaking in the bathtub after a challenging yoga class on Zoom, I made a mental list of all the ways in which I now have to fend for myself.




Cutting my hair leads the list, followed by coloring my hair. The first time I had my hair colored was on the eve of my son's bar mitzvah. That was thirty-three years ago. Not once have I gone "natural" --- that is, until now. The gray is popping up all over the place like the weeds in my garden and, though I've seen the Facebook posts (probably, Instagram and Twitter, too) with photos of all the women who have gone gray and are delighted, I have no intention of joining them. I've already scheduled my next hair appointment for the end of May and another for the middle of June. Just in case.


Then there are the mani/pedis, the physical therapy sessions, the dance and yoga classes -- the real ones, not the digital -- the occasional massages when my body aches after one of the aforementioned dance or yoga classes, trips to the doctor for non-emergency visits, calls on a seamstress to replace a broken zipper or hem a skirt. (I took what was called "Home Ec." in seventh grade. The lingering memory is not of learning stitches or cutting a dress pattern but starting my period. I can still see the Kotex machine in the girls' bathroom.)



The hairstylist, manicurist, physical therapist, dance/yoga/Pilates teacher, the seamstress, non-emergency physician, the plumber, the heating and cooling guy (Our furnace has quit twice), the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker (Just kidding), and, oh, lest I forget, Lucy and Maricella who help me clean my house twice a month and help improve my Spanish and make my stainless steel sink shine.


So, will I go back to the hustle-bustle lifestyle once the lockdown is over? To be honest, probably. But maybe, just maybe, I'll have learned to depend on myself a tad bit more and will order some root touchup from Madison Reed.


Happy Earth Day.








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