Haircuts

I took my parents to get their hair cut.

Mom used to go to a salon in Hyannis, but missed several appointments and is no longer welcome there. She didn’t appreciate that not showing up meant loss of income to her stylist, who sent a very gracious note wishing Mom well and explaining that she couldn’t accommodate those losses anymore.

Unwilling to visit a less posh salon closer to home, Mom didn’t get her hair cut for almost a year after that (don’t look at me, this is while she still had her driver’s license). Meanwhile, Dad was seeing his regular person, Tammy, just 10 minutes away.

Getting Dad from place to place can be quite a production. Eighty-six and blind, he doesn’t make quick strides, and he’s very easily startled by changes underfoot. From car to building, he has cane in one hand, me in the other; I’ve got him on one arm and everything else over the other shoulder. If it’s raining, add an umbrella. We shuffle along. It’s nice when someone holds a door.

When I first brought Dad to Tammy after Mom stopped driving, she came right to the door, opened it wide and swept him away as smoothly as you please. She offered just the right guidance and spoke at just the right volume about just the right things. And my Dad sat right down in her chair and proceeded to tell her All About It. They had a great time and I was so happily unnecessary it brought tears to my eyes. He came home looking handsome and feeling great. I tipped her exorbitantly.

Mom, in desperation, now agreed to see Tammy as well. I scheduled a midday appointment to get them both taken care of and me back to Sandwich in time for Robin’s volleyball game. Win-win (and-hopefully-win).

They were getting dressed when I arrived to pick them up. Dad needed help with small, stiff shirt buttons. He was mad that he couldn’t do them. I said “Dad, maybe you need to start wearing rugby shirts!” I was not entirely serious. However he is now obsessed with the idea of a rugby shirt, and I know what to get him for Christmas.

Sad news at the salon: Tammy was out due to injury. Rather than call to reschedule, the salon people had figured other stylists could fill in. This made me nervous and a bit resentful. Tammy is the whole point of that place. It’s not so great without her.

Stylists were hanging around discussing lunch orders, but Dad’s designated stand-in wasn’t even in the building. We were told she was delayed due to “the weather” (light rain). We waited. When she arrived and was asked if she wanted something from the cafe, she said “no, I picked up something on the way.” I think she realized mid-sentence how that came across.

A mystery: The ladies’ room in this place has no dryer or towels, so the inside door handle is always wet. But there’s a roll of paper towels on a table ten feet down the hall.

More mysteries: There is a lot of weird shit for sale crammed into the waiting area. Here is a partial list:

  • cocktail forks
  • a blouse
  • an electric egg cooker
  • a book by Dr. Phil
  • scented candles
  • a pair of metallic sandals
  • orange silicone kitchen utensils
  • loose tea
  • a scarf
  • Christmas ornaments (or fall? are fall ornaments a thing?)
  • a sequined black sweatshirt
  • an elaborately framed print of Cavalry, by Octavio Ocampo, which is a pretty creepy work of art no matter how you frame it.

It’s like that game where you look at a random assortment of items on a tray, and then someone takes away the tray and you have to list as many of the items as you can remember.

I’m in a constant state of low-grade confusion and irritability in this place. Why aren’t the paper towels in the bathroom? Where does all this crap come from and who would buy it? Where is the lady who’s going to cut my Dad’s hair? What is that other lady doing to my mother and how soon will it be before Mom starts saying things we will all regret? Why is all of this taking so long?

An hour and a half later, Mom had something like a bowl cut. Dad’s was better. Mom was persuaded to buy expensive tea tree shampoo to treat something on her scalp that I suspect would not exist if she shampooed more often. She was instructed not to use the expensive tea tree shampoo every day. That is not going to be an issue.

I’d thought we might go to lunch, but I was so fried that I just brought them home, paid the bills, brought in the mail, the newspapers and the garbage bin, consolidated some of Dad’s medicines in bottles he has marked in various ways to know by touch what they are, and set up Mom’s medications for the week ahead.

What I took away: Mom’s 2015 appointment calendar, with about 8 pounds of paper scraps tucked into it that I will scan through to be sure don’t include any legal documents (the car registration is MIA, for one thing); three catalogs to call and get her off their mailing list, again.

Another visit done.

I did make it to Robin’s game: a victory that left her in a fabulous mood all evening.

Vanity, Self-pity, and Wallowing, oh my!

(So, this was written in a particularly down moment, in a mindset I don’t occupy for long — but the fact remains, I’m having a tough time with the aging thing.)

Lately when I look in the mirror all I see is “age spots” and lines, dark circles and sags, pastiness and doughy bulges… all capped by flat, mousey hair in one hell of a stupid cut (thanks to the most frequently recommended salon in town, an experience I won’t repeat).

I’ve become plain. I know this because I wasn’t, always, and the difference is something I can feel.

Recently I had lunch with a friend who confessed she’s having a hard time with turning 50. I didn’t realize she was hitting that milestone… at 47, I look easily ten years older than she. Not intending to hurt my feelings, she asked if my LinkedIn picture was taken many years ago, and, haha, if I thought my term on the school board accounted for the difference in my appearance between then and now. “Because I think of that picture, and then I saw you one day and how tired you looked, and I was wondering if it was really beating you up… but I guess we’re all just aging.” This is not a catty person. She was just talking without thinking – and I think I don’t seem like someone likely to be hurt, so maybe sometimes people don’t take the care they might otherwise.

It did hurt, though.

“I shouldn’t leave the house without makeup.” I always thought that was a ridiculous thing for a person to say about herself! But what an easy conviction to ridicule, when you’re young and pretty. Young and pretty people, take note. Those conditions are temporary. You too will grieve when they pass you by.

I know how my friend felt, looking at me, because I’d just had a similar experience with  another friendly acquaintance the previous weekend. It had been a few months since we’d seen each other, and we were chatting away. As the afternoon sun crossed her face, I suddenly thought, wow. I can see just what she’s going to look like as a nice old lady. You know how sometimes you look at a child and get a glimpse, through some little mannerism or expression, of what they’ll be like as a young adult? It was like that. I saw the thinning, speckled skin, the graying hair in a perpetually unflattering style (why do we have bangs? In my case it’s because my hair just breaks off, now), the thin lines not just around her eyes and mouth but beginning to appear, crepe-like, across her cheeks.

It was an unsettling moment… one I relive in the mirror, daily. Oh, vanity. (Did I say anything to her about it though? NO I DID NOT.)

So I guess I am vain, but I also have a hang-up about spending money on trying to look nicer when there are college tuitions and retirement to be saving for. I think of my friend Jane, a near-constant smoker who, though unemployed and without prospects, willingly forked over hundreds of dollars last week to have some kind of filler injected into her face to push out deep lines caused by three decades of sucking on Marlboro Reds. (No sense in just quitting fucking smoking, I guess.) She looks just the same as before, as far as I can tell. I think of many friends who spend regularly to maintain flattering and gorgeous (if somewhat improbable) hair colors. Looking good is worthwhile to them, and it shows. They are lovely.

I admit to feeling a little judgmental toward Janie, mostly because I don’t want to lose her to lung cancer. But I truly don’t begrudge anyone their salon expenses. So what holds me back? There’s a kind of Puritan superiority buried in this frugality, and it’s just as unbecoming as my mouse-brown hair. Are highlights in order, expense be damned? Because surgery is out of the question, as are injected fillers or neurotoxins.

Do makeovers really help a tedious midlife crisis, or am I better off just trying to come to terms with how I look now?

The most appropriate response to all this is “SHUT UP AND GET OVER YOURSELF BEFORE I SHOW YOU WHAT A REAL PROBLEM LOOKS LIKE.” I know that. I have friends who’ve lost their beautifully colored hair to chemotherapy and would trade that for mine any day.

It’s just that having someone say to (and about!) your face, essentially “you look really noticeably worse than you did five years ago”… well. It stings, maybe worse than those injections. Here’s hoping the effects are just as temporary.