Ode to my Hairdresser

It's 5:03 on a Wednesday. The day has been long, though not particularly unkind.

Just more of the same: waking up too late, rushing to get the baby changed and out the door, a busy work day packed with back-to-back meetings and fires to put out. It is not unfamiliar, but it drains me nonetheless.

I have been waiting for this. All day, I have been waiting.

At long last, I ease my aching bones into the swivel chair, and she dresses me like a queen in a draping black robe. She does not mention my stubby, baby hair regrowth. She ignores the grays that appear to be multiplying in droves.

She talks me off the ledge when I ask for the mom hair cut. She knows me well enough to gently remind me that I'd rather be able to pull my long locks into a ponytail or braid to keep it safe from the tight clutches of pudgy toddler paws.

Instead, she snips away the burden carried in each broken, dead end. I track each wisp as it floats to the floor and feel lighter, in both body and spirit.

And then the very best part: the part I daydream about for weeks preceding my appointment. We walk to the reclined chair and I gingerly lay my weary head in the ceramic bowl. The water is hot, not scalding—it is Goldilocks perfect. The shampoo is a gentle hush of sun-warmed coconut; the conditioner fresh linen.

Her hands are patient and knowing, kneading my scalp like an expert baker. My brain steps off the treadmill for a moment; settling into the chair beside me, letting all other "To Dos" idle. Enjoying the hard-fought respite of this moment.

--

Hours later, I undress my toddler for the bath. She screams and flails, already asserting her independence in loud squawks of disapproval.

Once free and naked, she runs down the hall yelling "booty!" And I do not regret teaching her the words for each part of her body because that one never fails to make me chuckle.

I wet her blonde head with water and she laughs as the droplets run down her face. I pause as I begin to rub the soap into her hair and massage it instead, moving slowly and intentionally just as my hairdresser had.

She is much less still than I, but giggles at the sensation. I return her laugh with my own, delighted to simply be here with her in this perfectly ordinary day; having taken good care of myself so that, in turn, I have enough leftover for her too.