The haircut experience is almost always pleasing. You know, someone washing your hair and massaging your scalp, being raised up and down by a pedal at the base of your super comfy padded chair, gazing at rows of colorful bottles of lovely smelling liquids, and, someone asking for your opinions and desires. Ahhhh.
This week I had a haircut with almost none of those pleasures, but, man oh man, it was the cat’s meow. Rebecca, who’s been cutting my hair for fifteen years, agreed to come to my house. Because I’m terrified of sharing indoor air with any one, I set us up in the backyard! When she arrived we hugged from six feet apart. We wore masks. We traded stories about the last five months of staying at home and generally going berserk.
Being in the backyard, a leaky garden hose was the wash sink, and a lawn chair was my perch (no magic pedal for hoisting me up and down). Rebecca had to pull up another lawn chair behind me to keep her back from breaking. No suds, no potions. But what a fabulous and overdue cropping of the locks.
My hair is no longer making the back of my neck scream in the summer heat. This pandemic has nothing on Rebecca.