Covid Tales: A Hairy Matter
When the lockdown was announced in March 2020, I was due for a haircut. I wear my hair short and feel there are multiple joys and advantages to this. The downside is that it needs a trim every 6 weeks. At least I think so.
Well, the trim wasn’t going to happen when it needed to, so I let it go. The lockdown will be over soon, I said to myself, and then, I’ll go for a trim. But the lockdown showed no signs of ending, and my hair wouldn’t stop growing. The Indian summer was upon us and that's when I like my hair the shortest.
So, finally one day in June, I decided to cut my hair, myself. Armed with newspapers and a pair of scissors, I proceeded to the bathroom and stationed myself in the front of the large wall mirror. I spread the newspaper on the floor of the bathroom and I began doing what I saw Mavis, my hairdresser of 40 years, do. I snipped and snipped. There was a rush of excitement as my hair came off, and I started to feel like my short hair self.
After about 20 minutes, I was quite pleased. Over the next few days, I realized there were bits of ends that needed a further snip. So, I snipped. My husband was very impressed and requested a hair cut. Flush with my success and flattered, I was happy to oblige. I didn’t realize his hair was different to mine. It had its own vocabulary.
Brief history: It wasn’t the first time I took scissors to my hair. As a student in the US in the early 1970s, I couldn’t afford a haircut and wanted one. As luck would have it, I found a book ‘How to Cut Your Own Hair’ for 50 cents in a bookshop.
Much cheaper than a haircut, I said to myself and promptly bought it. I had a pair of scissors, not necessarily professional ones, but it would have to do. Till I got a full time job in Washington DC, five years later, I continued to cut my hair.
Some forty-five years later, I am not doing so badly. I can’t match Mavis, my hairdresser, by a long shot. But I can look presentable. In January 2021, when the lockdown was lifted, there was a window to have a Mavis haircut, I did get one. My sister invited Mavis to her home and my brother-in-law, my sister and I all had haircuts, followed by lunch. I felt like myself.
Now, I am back to being my own hairdresser.
It’s a strange business, hair cutting. I hold up the hair, snip it and let it drop on the newspaper. After I’m all done, seeing the salt and pepper mixture on the newspaper paper, I wonder: did this really come from my head? Somehow, I can’t believe it did. It has a different feel and texture sitting on my head. On the newspaper, looking up at me, it doesn’t seem like mine. At all.
Last year, after I’d cut my hair, I folded the hair in the newspaper and kept it. I’m not sure why. I didn’t want to throw it away. Maybe an art project, I thought. In January this year, I decided to detach myself from it and put the four folded newspapers in the bin.
The lockdown has made me self-sufficient in a way I’d never imagined. But, more of those tales later.
For now, the hair is enough.
