Dear Reader, please know that in no way am I making light of our current situation in the world. With that being said, I find it oh-so-important to keep laughing. And so I will. Maybe you would like to join me today.
My son is growing out his hair “quarantine style.” I’m not a fan. On Day 28 we exchanged words. These words came after my family’s Day 27 dinner where I learned I’d been voted “Worst Quarantine Hair” of the Jagger Family.
Do you know how discouraging it is to lose to a bald man?
And so on Day 28, I began to fight back a bit. I was not a fan of the award I’d won the previous evening. I questioned my son and his hair. I called him“Curly,” to which he hurled at me, “Pepé Le Pew.” In case you do not remember your iconic Bugs Bunny Saturday morning cartoons of the 1970’s, Pepé Le Pew is the name of a cartoon skunk and my son was mocking the black and grayish stripe I currently have running down the center of my hair. Quarantining with two teenagers . . . deep sigh.
While it would be obvious to the casual observer that my hair is in desperate need of a color, it would also be obvious to the casual observer that it is in dire need of a cut. And so on Day 28 of Quarantine when “Curly” and “”Pepé were exchanging words, Curly said to Pepé , “Face it mom, you are going to have to have dad cut your hair.” To which I responded, “Over my dead body, dad will NOT cut my hair!”
I said that. I said those words. I said those words on Day 28 of Quarantine.
And then Day 32 arrived. Day 32. The day after Easter. The day when I probably spent more time than necessary lamenting, “I was one week away from my next hair appointment when we began our quarantine! One. More. Week.”
I set out my husband’s “Home Hair Care Kit.” I carefully contemplated my next step. If he could just cut some off the back of my hair, surely, surely, I would look and feel better. Life is not for the faint-of-heart, Dear Reader. I made my decision and waited for Chad to get off work and emerge from the basement while I graded a few more online assignments.
“I need you.” He followed me to the bathroom, took one look at what I had laying out on the bathroom counter and incredulously asked, “Do you really want me to cut your hair?” As always, I responded honestly, “No, but you’re my only option.” Next I went into g-r-e-a-t detail about what he was to cut and what he was not to cut. “See the fake blonde? Don’t cut the blonde! When you see blonde, DO NOT CUT!”
We pinned up my hair. I led us in prayer. “Lord, please help this to go well so Chad and I can still stay married during this quarantine. Amen.” He laughed.
I did not.
I was nervous, tense, confused, frightened, and desperate. I accused him of cutting off way too much of my hair, only to sheepishly look at the bathroom floor and realize he’d hardly taken off anything. I gave him permission to keep cutting.
He finished and I shakily grabbed the mirror to assess the situation. I was pleased. Also, my head felt four pounds lighter. I celebrated by eating three homemade chocolate chip cookies to regain the four pounds I’d just lost.
Day 32 broke me. By the time you are reading this, Dear Reader, it will at least be Day 41. And if it’s come to my husband cutting my hair on Day 32, I can’t imagine how far I will have irrationally sunk by Day 41. Good lands, I shudder to even consider this, but maybe . . . maybe by then my husband will have colored “Pepé’s hair!” I’ve learned the hard way, during Quarantine, to never say never.
Until the next Wednesday the Lord allows.