If It’s Wednesday, I Need to Write

I think I’ve finally run out of things to say. I got a haircut on Monday and talked non-stop the entire time. That’s what happens when you get housebound for so long, then see another human who is more than willing to let you have diarrhea of the mouth. My hairdresser asks lots of questions and it’s occurred to me more than once in her presence that she’s using me for entertainment. You know how some people can treat their elders, like they know just what to ask to rattle our cages and get stuff to fall out of our mouths that will make them laugh. Kind of like Art Linkletter used to talk to children. That's my hairdresser. Just wait, honey, it will happen to you too when you pass seventy.

She’s letting my hair grow out and into a pixie cut. I didn’t ask her to change the style, didn’t know she was even doing it until Monday. All month long I struggled with the Woody-Woodpecker look at the back of my head. I didn’t know she did that twist thing when cutting each section to give it “lift” in the back. “Don’t do that again!” I told her. She says in two more haircuts I’ll look like Jennifer Lawrence. I wanted to reply, “I don’t recall telling you it was on my Bucket List to look like Jennifer Lawrence.” But what I actually said was: “Great, I’ll give you two more months of play time on my head because it will still be winter and I can wear hats.” What makes a hairdresser unilaterally decide to grow out a client's hair? Strangely, though, I really would like to look like Jennifer Lawrence.

Tuesday I had an express pedicure. Not my favorite thing to do but I have a foot doctor appointment coming up so I wanted my toenails not to be so long they’ll injury the doctor. The pedicurist thinks I have a circulation problem that gives me brown spots near my toes and on the nails themselves. She says she told one client to get something similar checked out and she ended up having heart surgery. Oh, goodie. I think it’s a fungus and/or the results of life-long foot issues but what do I know, I’ve only had my feet for over seven decades and one foot has been "shot up" with medication to kill off the nerves.

The foot doctor is just returning from his yearly month out of the country working with Doctors Without Borders. My eye doctor goes yearly, too, and one of my husband’s specialists did the same thing. They must have a good recruiter in town. The things you learn about professionals’ personal lives is amazing when you play tit-for-tat right back at them when they ask you questions. My foot doctor, for example, gets his deep summer tan cutting his own lawn and he loves his shrubbery more than any red-blooded man should be allowed. I had pegged him for a boater and can easily visualize him out sailing like a Kennedy near Nantucket. Every time I see him I am reminded not to judge a book by its cover. He may be drool-on-your-shoes handsome but the fact is a "yupper" bred man with a compassionate heart and simple tastes lives inside his head. A yupper is a person raised in the Upper Peninsular of Michigan.

I have nothing more to say. Later in the week I’ve got two movie and lunch dates---one with my club from the senior hall and one with my Red Hat Society chapter. If you’re guessing I’ll be writing movie reviews for my weekend post, you might be wrong. Don’s sadiversary is coming up, marking the end of my 3^rd year of widowhood. I might be writing an evaluation, a self-examination to see if I’ve made any measurable progress in the Department of Getting on With My life. ©