I got my Last Haircut today. I usually imagine I’ll die
within the next two to four months (the average between haircuts). Eventually
I’ll be right. The last (fill in the blank) is coming up for everyone. Perhaps
my fantasizing that this will be my last haircut is a way to trick the
universe, realign my genes, fool the impossible powers, the mystic cesspit from
which all life arises, the hamster wheel, the magical unicorn that
controls the world? Fool myself? I do this with everything. A way to batter my
anxiety into chilling out and giving me another cycle. If I keep saying, “This
is my last haircut, breakfast, sexual interlude (wink), argument, bowl of ice
cream, bath, vacation, pointless phone conversation with my insurance company,
dentist appointment,” it feels like I am poking my finger in Death’s eye. When
I say, “I will die today,” and if I don’t die, I feel pretty cocky.
So, today was my last haircut. Until October.
R, the artist, the beauty, who cuts my hair, has a new puppy
and she brought it to work. Cute, miniature dachshund or schnauzer, black,
bubbly, sniffing and tripping. She also has three kids (3).
I asked her, “What the fuck did you get a dog for? Aren’t
having three kids who take up all of your non-haircutting time enough?”
I don’t have kids. Thank Christ. I travel and relax and
don’t have to take any late night phone calls from some needy thirty or forty
year old who wants money or comfort or a place to stay. I don’t buy presents
for grandkids or babysit or worry about when the children and grandchildren are
going to need rehab or surgery or driver’s licenses. Nope. I’m out of that
game, free and clear; it’s all about me, self-determination and serenity.
I also do not have a dog. Can’t imagine. Feeding, walking,
cleaning up. Grooming and training and veterinarians. Wow. I get itchy just
thinking about it. Sounds like hell. I’ve heard all about the Unconditional
Love, but I don’t really need Unconditional Love. I’m fine, thanks. In fact, I
wonder about people who need Unconditional Love. Something missing there? Need
a little worship or devotion, do you? Something to lick your hand, divert your
attention from your scary thoughts, give you a purpose when you get home from
work? Good luck. Dogs die and kids move and all that’s left is the refrigerator
and the mirror. Eat your veggies.
R was about three minutes late for our appointment, no
problem, but she explained how everyone woke up late and she was running
around, feeding her children (3), dressing them, trying to get them out the
door because she had to drive them across town to her sister’s place so her
sister could entertain them all day while R cut hair and made money to pay for
school books and clothing and gymnastic lessons and guitar lessons and riding
lessons and swimming lessons, every kind of lesson and pastime, to which she
also had to drive them.
“How the fuck,” I asked, “can someone who does all that, who
does it well, who doesn’t seem insane, has a mild temperament and who cuts good
hair, who looks great and is fashionable and clean, how can someone who does
all of that STILL want to own a goddamn dog? I mean, holy shit.”
“The kids love the dog and it’s not a problem.”
Oh yes it is. It’s a problem. At least, it looks like a
problem to me. Too many living creatures under one roof, demanding, barking,
crying, eating, talking, needing, sleeping, waking.
Then I thought: It’s a slippery slope and I suppose once you
allow yourself to care for others, to give life and time and comfort, and you
actually have that gene where you want to have kids, breed, nurse and love and
nurture, why not get a dog? What the hell, you’re already tied up with all
those kids. Get a pet. Get a few. One for each kid. Who needs sleep?
As we were winding down our haircut, R asked, in
professional barber-like fashion, “So, what do you have planned for the rest of
the day?”
Silence.
“What?”
“What are you going to do today? Do you have plans?”
“I got a haircut. That’s what I’m doing today.”
“Oh, I thought you might have something else going on.”
Getting nervous.
“Uh, no, haircut, that’s enough. I’ll probably do some
reading. I like to read.”
I like to read. What a fucking slacking, reclusive,
isolating selfish dick. I like to read. I didn’t have the balls to ask R
what she was going to do for the rest of the day. I mean, the rest of the day
after she works eight hours cutting, coloring, highlighting, trimming, tidying
up people and talking to them about their lives and their kids. I couldn’t
stand to hear how much more she was planning. What her children (3) needed,
where they had to go, what to do, cooking, eating, reading bedtime stories.
Plus she has a boyfriend, which is another whole frigging planet.
I couldn’t follow the thought, “What are your plans for the
rest of the day?” I was lost and embarrassed.
I read, I write, I shower and shave and shop and cook. I
watch videos and talk to one or two people on the phone a few times a week. I
make my bed, do the dishes, read the news, worry, workout, plan trips, shop
online. It’s wonderful. I like my life; childless, petless.
What am I planning for the rest of the day? What am I
PLANNING?
Holy shit, how much more do they have to squeeze out of me?
How much more do you want from me, universe? You know what, universe? Fuck you.
I got a haircut.
Besides, this is my last haircut and I need to catch up on
some reading.
