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Because I lack time (and fear this sort of commitment), I am utterly indiscriminate about where I get my hair cut. I don’t make appointments. I have no loyalty to one particular salon or stylist. I let the wind take me as it will, never minding where or when fate deposits me at the hairdresser’s door.
A bulb flicked on above my head the other night as I made my way home from a string of tedious errands. I realized that I’d pushed hair from over my eyes ten-million times that night alone, so when I saw a blinking “open” light in a nearby salon window, I made a sharp turn into the parking lot.
Chance assigned me a woman who I’d been with several months ago. I remembered nothing more about her than that she had managed to give me a haircut that didn’t look too terribly like sex-hair right from the start — and if you know my hair, you’ll know that’s quite an accomplishment all by itself.
Left to my own devices in the chair, I would have let my mind wander to future work and fun, but she wanted to talk. Instead of plotting the next assignation (or how I’d write about it), I tried to answer her questions about work, children and social life.
As you can possibly imagine, providing a stranger the complete answers to questions such as those did not strike me as a good idea, so I gently turned the conversation back to her. This I accomplished with rather less than the usual effort. It was clear she wanted to talk about herself.
And as soon as she started talking, I realized that I’d heard her story in a previous visit. Young daughter, too many hours of work for too little money, and an unemployed alcoholic husband she had a great fear of leaving. When she paused for breath I asked, “Have you gone to Al-Anon?”
She had, but they hadn’t helped, she told me. They’d wanted her to talk, and talk, and then talk some more, and she’d gotten little out of all that talking. “There’s nothing I can do to change him!” she said wearily. “I don’t know what the Al-Anon people wanted me to do!”
“No, you can’t change him,” I said cautiously, as I have only the vaguest grasp of Al-Anon concepts. “You can’t ever change him…but you can change what you do.”
“And that’s just the thing!” I feared for my hair (and ears) as her voice rose in volume. “I can’t change anything I’m doing, or our whole life will fall apart. If he drinks too much and can’t go to work, then we can’t pay the bills. If I don’t drive him places, he’ll drive drunk and get another DUI.”
Afraid of saying the wrong thing, I tried to choose words carefully. “When you are ready, you’ll maybe want to make some changes in the amount of help you give him.”
My choice of words mattered not at all. She plowed on without having heard me. “You’re getting divorced, right? But you have little children! And you’re not scared of being all by yourself?”
“I was ‘by myself’ for most of the time I was with him,” I answered. “I’m less ‘alone’ now than I ever was with him.”
“I guess…” It was clear that she was not ready for this line of thought. “I just don’t know how you’re not terrified.”
“I am terrified,” I told her. “But it’s no more terrifying than it was with him.”
By then the hair-cutlery had finished. She shook her head in dismay while brushing the stray hair off my neck. I paid up, including a tip larger than what I otherwise would have given. Could she have fabricated the whole tale to elicit greater tips, I briefly wondered?
No, probably not. Unfortunately.
What is the proper response when a near-stranger places upon you this sort of story? Was there something more, or less, or different that I should have said to her? Those of you with more experience with this kind of thing, speak up please.



