I'm undaunted in my quest to amuse myself by constantly changing my hair - Hilary Clinton

A reminder popped up on my screen yesterday that read, cryptically, ‘Forget it. You’ll be sorry—just like last time.’ My first thought was that some finger-waggling hacker with nothing better to do had been playing in my calendar, but then it dawned on me that I had written this little note to myself a year ago, cleverly predicting exactly when I’d get the itch to make a radical change to my mop.

For half my life since high school, I’ve had variations of the same, classic bob—a style that undeniably works best for my hair type but looks, well, boring. Not to mention unoriginal. What I really want is a drop-dead gorgeous hairdo—I’m thinking Victoria Beckham—that can be washed in thirty seconds and styled in under two minutes. And therein lies the rub, because the only style with a hope of meeting those conditions is a very short cut and there are two reasons why that doesn’t work for me.

The first one alone should give me sufficient pause that I don’t even need to call up the second. I’m tall—so tall that I only rarely encounter anyone at my eye level. Even men. The second reason is that I do not have an abundance of hair, and what I do have is fine. The way it works is this: the taller one is, the more proportion matters, and the sum of tall plus short and fine adds up to pinhead, which is not a look I care for overmuch. But even if I was five foot nothing, the fact remains that my hair, when released of the ballast that a bit of length gives it, refuses to adhere to a part of any location and falls straight forward. No matter how good the original styling was, I end up with second cousin to a bowl cut unless I spend at least half an hour and $15 worth of product on it.

Not everybody frets so much about their hair, for sure. There are people out there in shopping malls and public libraries who don’t struggle with angst about whether their locks look good. Or even clean! But I’m stuck with my preoccupation and am pretty sure I can blame my mother for it. She used to roll a mean chignon and wouldn’t dream of leaving the bathroom less than fully coiffed.

I’ve been around the block a few times, so to speak—the hairdresser’s equivalent of a serial monogamist. My fruitless search for the ideal style has driven me into the hands of countless cutters, but put an end to some promising relationships because there’s just no way to hide the evidence of my infidelity.

To be honest, I’ve only ever had one really awful experience—the time I decided, on a whim, to get my hair cut in a salon near Paris, with the wrong-headed assumption that if the coiffeur is French, ergo, he must be good. Jean-Jacques gave me a two-for one ‘do—short on one side and then angled irregularly to finish about three inches lower on the other. Language difficulties might have been a factor but who knew that behind J-J’s mild expression lurked a punk mentality?? Not since my mother cut my bangs within an inch of my hairline had I cried myself to sleep over the way my hair looked.

For those of us who came of age during the feminist movement at its most ferocious, hair talk made us skittish; it was way too girly and unworthy of our status as strong-women-to-be-taken-seriously. But in recent years, the move to public, full-frontal transparency has meant that women can now admit to their deep dissatisfaction with their hair, and some have even spoken openly about their most secret fantasies. Turns out that having a post-grad degree in theoretical physics and being able to do your own plumbing does not preclude believing in fairy tales. Well, one, anyway, and it goes like this: Somewhere out there is the perfect haircut, one so flattering, so easy to manage, so totally ME... that I will be unequivocally happy with it!! This is on a par with believing that the Mafia is a charitable foundation.

All this openness has helped me a lot. It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one who struggles with delusional thinking, and I am fully aware that I may have to protect myself from me with ‘don’t-mess-with-it’ warnings. But despite all that, I have a sinking feeling that history may repeat itself, even though between now and my appointment with the new guy next week, I’ll give myself every possible reason to keep the status quo.

I can see it all now. He’ll take a long, discomfiting look at me from all sides, run his fingers knowingly through my tired bob (it’s taken a whole year to get back to one length), and then suggest—without actually saying it in so many words—that with some layering here and some choppy stuff there, he’ll make me look fabulous.

And that reminder? Maybe I'll pay closer attention next year.

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The Last Supper

Creeping emphysema from a lifetime of smoking took hold of my robust, athletic father and turned him into a frail and fragile old man whose every exertion left him gasping for breath. Hospitalized after a fall, the slow disintegration of his body gathered speed and one afternoon a few months later my eldest brother called to say that things didn’t look very good at all.

Within a few hours I was on a plane. I felt guilty for not having gone to see Dad sooner, sick with anxiety that I might be too late. It was awful to think that he might leave before the rest of us got there, robbing us of any chance to say goodbye.

He was hanging on, but unconscious and unresponsive to touch or voice. I dozed in a chair by his bed, waking frequently to check on him. When sleep was impossible, I tried to bring back all the memories I had of him, but the same few kept replaying in my head. Walking me to school, laughing at my attempts to match his long strides. Showing my brothers how to fight fairly, with gloves instead of fists. Teaching me to waltz, my child’s feet tenuously balanced on his long and bony ones. Bringing home the first new car he had ever had—a two-seater MG. Sailing the dinghy one last time before winter came, through paper-thin ice. Coping well, despite all our fears, with a sudden loss of vision at the relatively young age of sixty five.

I wondered how and when he would die. He could linger for days, or even weeks. It didn’t seem right that his life, which had been by turns adventurous and industrious, familial and solitary, would finish in such a sterile, unworthy place. I imagined carrying him away to some beautiful spot; a high, grassy meadow overlooking the sea where, in the warmth and brilliance of spring, he could leave us behind in a setting infinitely more appropriate.

By daylight, nothing had changed; he barely breathed and his skin, almost luminous, was tinged with blue. The only one still missing—my middle brother—arrived in early afternoon. There was still no reaction from Dad.

Now we were complete. We sat beside his bed, talking in low tones, waiting, holding Dad’s hands and watching for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. Then, astonishingly, he spoke. “Is that you, Garry?”, he asked of my middle brother, faint surprise in his voice.

By evening, he was completely alert. The next day he was strong enough to eat small amounts. He slept a lot, but between naps he talked with us, made weak jokes and took quiet, obvious pleasure in the presence of his family. We were amazed, and wary of what might happen next. Every time he dozed off I half-expected that he would leave us as abruptly as he had come back, but two more days went by and still he was there.

Finally, reluctantly, Garry and I made our plans to fly home. No one said anything out loud, but it didn’t feel right to leave without some kind of acknowledgment that these might be the last hours we would ever spend with our father.

What comes back to me most vividly about that last day is Dad’s reaction when we announced that we had cancelled his bland hospital meal in favour of a tasty supper of his favourite foods. Over years of living alone he had become a pretty decent cook and despite - and because - of the loss of his sight, cooking became one of his most important daily activities. Mealtimes were events to be anticipated and appreciated, and he planned them accordingly. Almost every afternoon at four o’clock he sat down at the little table in his kitchen with a glass of wine and two pieces of Stilton cheese—crackers on the side—and the highlight of his week was go out for dinner to his favourite restaurant. But while we were pretty sure he'd like the idea, we hadn't counted on the effect it would have.

‘Bring it on!!’, he roared, as if he'd discovered salvation at an old-time revival meeting. He pulled himself up straighter and smoothed his pyjama top - to be more presentable, he said. My brother poured a generous amount of red wine and held it steady for Dad to drink.

“That’s the ticket!” he chortled. It didn't matter that the wine was served in a plastic cup. Next came a cracker topped with Stilton, followed by another, and another. The tremors that had bedeviled him for years were worse than they had ever been; we took turns feeding him. My brother warned him not to eat too much or he’d have no room for the next course, which just made Dad laugh. Oh, we didn't need to worry about that, he said. His pleasure was so intense that it almost hurt to watch him. I was stricken by the fact that something this simple could bring him such joy. Why hadn’t we thought of it before?

The Greek salad was a big hit, eaten with gusto and washed down with more wine. This was the guy who, just days before, had been barely able to get a few tablespoons of applesauce down the hatch. With relish, he moved on to the spicy designer pasta, but soon he began to tire. The effort and excitement had taken their toll and then suddenly, he was asleep. We waited, wondering if we should just pack up what was left. My brother’s eyes rarely left Dad’s face, and on his own were shadows of tenderness and grief.

After a brief nap, Dad roused himself to continue but the pace slowed, and after a few more bites he pronounced himself ‘full fit to bursting!’. In the lengthening evening, we sat together as he drifted in and out of wakefulness. When finally it was late and time to go, we embraced him and wished him goodnight and goodbye.

A week or so later I called him on the phone. He told me there were still some leftovers and that at around four o’clock that afternoon the nursing aide had brought him some Stilton and red wine. “I had a wine and cheese party for one and really enjoyed it!” It was the last time I heard his voice.

My little dream of taking Dad to a meadow overlooking the sea was, in fact, a wish for a meaningful way to mark the end of his life and a gesture that would let him know how much he meant to me. But in its spontaneity and simple joy, the meal we shared with him - our Last Supper - did that perfectly.

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The Upside of Terrible Time Management

Tardiness is my Achilles heel. Chronic lateness has caused me no end of anxiety, the loss of a few jobs, and more than one strained relationship. But despite my best efforts it continues to occupy the next-to-top spot on my list of personal flaws.

It’s not that I don’t care about being on time. I hate to be late, but my estimation of the time it takes to complete a task is often wildly optimistic. So even though I should have known better, it seemed entirely reasonable that I could get up at nine o’clock, clean the whole house, hem two pair of jeans, make some freezer-ready meals for my kids, pack my bags, have a shower and walk the dog, and still be ready to leave for the airport by four in the afternoon to catch my flight overseas.

As usually happens when I load too much to do into too little time, the hours sped by. When it got to be nearly three forty-five, logic should have told me to ditch the shower I still hadn’t had, but my horror of being in public with yucky hair trumped rational thought. All the way to the airport I simmered with anxiety. I doubted that my youngest son had ever driven so carefully, but still we made it to the terminal just under the wire—one hour and five minutes before flight time.

The line of passengers checking in was short, although everyone seemed to have time-consuming issues with seat selection or overweight bags. I avoided looking at my watch. Normal people don’t get this, but we tardy ones rationalize that if we don’t look at the time, we might not actually be late. Seriously.

Finally it was my turn. I handed my passport to the woman behind the desk, who typed speedily, frowned deeply and then signaled to a supervisor. They conferred for a moment then he uttered words I never thought I would hear, despite having played fast and loose with check-in times all my traveling life.

“I’m sorry, but you will not be able to board this flight due to your late arrival at check-in.” My knees buckled. He might as well have told me I had 24 hours to live. We had a little back-and-forth, the supervisor and I, with me pointing out that I had actually been standing in line before the 60-minute cut-off. He informed me—officiously, I imagined—that what mattered was the moment I presented myself to a check-in agent.

I pointed out a few other things, such as how it was essential for me to be on this flight, and that this was all ridiculous anyway, because the plane was there, and I could get to it in time. But your bags won’t, he said, and that’s why there are minimum check-in times. I stooped a bit lower and tried to pull some imaginary rank by saying that I traveled this route all the time, with the implication that I was a Very Important Passenger. In that case, you should know better than to arrive late, he said.

Ouch.

I begged. Implored. I detest using emotion to manipulate, but I even turned on a few tears. Nothing doing. Now, I know that getting mad is the last desperate card of self-righteous people and it never, ever, works, but my sickening disappointment left no room for any kind of reasonableness. I tried to intimidate him. I demanded to know his name and position and let him know – without yelling, mind you – how displeased I was with the treatment I was getting. In a very regrettable way, I tried my best to shift the blame to him, but he was immovable; a granite block without a whiff of empathy about him . I had to give it up.

The agent who reissued my ticket couldn’t have been nicer. He saw only my distress, not the uglier flip side. While I waited to find out how much my mistake was going to cost, I cooled off a bit and did some hard thinking. The whole thing had been no one’s fault but my own and I had made things tough for someone who was only doing his job. It didn’t feel very good.

The agent handed me a new ticket, now routed through London instead of Frankfurt. He shook his head when I reached for my credit card. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. That did it. Relief dissolved what was left of my fear and anger and I resolved to track down Granite Man and tell him I was sorry.

I found him at the departure gate of my original flight—ironically, the plane was still there, delayed by forty five minutes—and offered my regrets for having made his job more difficult. He looked unconvinced and only reluctantly accepted my handshake. I slunk away hardly feeling any better.

An hour later, there he was again at the door of the London-bound plane. I figured I’d just pretend to be invisible, but as I tried to slip past him he said something totally unexpected. He asked, kindly, if everything had worked out in the end. And he apologized. For having upset me with bad news. For having appeared to be unfeeling, when in fact he had felt very sorry for me. It was the only way he could make himself do something he hated, he explained. I nearly hugged him. Then he asked to have my boarding pass and told me to wait a moment.

On the way to London, I had lots of time to reflect on human behavior and how, when we lose objectivity, the spillover is sometimes hard to contain. How important it is to be responsible for what we do. How we err when we make assumptions about others and how disarming an apology can be—although to be completely honest, I don’t know how easily these conclusions would have come had I not been spared paying a stiff fee. And thanks to the decency of the person I had affronted, I was enjoying an upgrade to business class.

That might have been the entirely satisfactory end of it all. But as I made my way to my connecting flight at Heathrow airport, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. It’s a bit disingenuous to think that this improbable stroke of luck might have been a reward for being tardy, or sorry, or both. But still.

“Mom!! “ My eldest son grabbed me in a bone-crushing hug. “I'm about to leave for Amsterdam. What the hell are YOU doing here?”

Well, it’s kind of a long story. But you know how I’m always late...?

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