The Last Haircut

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.