Trista Cornelius

Word Count 786

I’ve been avoiding cutting my husband’s hair. It’s strange work. Clumps of hair gather at my feet like small pets wanting their dinner. I learned how to cut his hair during the pandemic. Now that it’s safe, he could go to the barber, but he wants me to cut it.

Today at the memory-care center, my mom and I waited a long time for my dad to be wheeled out to the reception area to visit. We sat facing the open French doors of the conference room. A short woman with a sleek, unyielding bob expertly cut her husband’s hair. “She’s a hairdresser,” my mom explained.

There’s a beauty salon inside the care center. For an extra fee, your loved one can get haircuts, manicures, and pedicures. However, the stylist can no longer work with my dad. As he enters the later stages of Alzheimer’s, he is starting to act out, and has become difficult. I wouldn’t want to be around him with sharp implements either. He can no longer stand or walk on his own anymore, but his hands are surprisingly strong and swift.

Instead, the staff of the care center trim his hair with clippers the best they can: uniformly short all the way around. Hair sprouts vigorously out of his ears. It gets trimmed periodically, maybe when he’s calmer.

The ear hair annoys me. Not because it looks odd, which it does, but because it’s so robust. My dad’s mind and body are deteriorating in slow, haltering, unpredictable stages. But his ear hair seems positively exuberant.

I watch the couple in the conference room. The man has a long, blue cape wrapped around him. Each chunk of clipped hair makes a satisfying swish sound as it slides down the plastic cape. The woman smooths her hand over her husband’s head. When she does this, the man leans forward, making a kissing shape with his mouth. I think this means he likes it.

The woman’s thick white tennis shoes squeak as she bends over stiffly to collect the hair fallen in a half-circle around her man. I feel a brief pang in my heart when the woman drops the cut hair into the garbage can. I don’t know why, but I want her to keep it.

After she packs up her supplies, she sits in front of her husband, knee to knee, and talks:

“Our grandson graduates from high school Saturday.”

Silence in reply.

“I called you my ‘Heavy Lifter.’ You did all the hard work. That’s why we had such a pretty backyard. You were always moving a bush or digging a hole for me.”

The man turns his cheek toward one of his wife’s hands resting on her thigh. She lifts the back of her hand to his cheek and helps him hold it there.

I feel intrusive witnessing this intimacy, so I make conversation with my mom about rhubarb recipes. Even so, I still manage to hear:

“My only dimple is on my butt.”

“You always reminded me of that because no one else could see it.”

I don’t wonder why she brings this up in her valiant one-sided conversation. You say whatever you can think of so your person keeps hearing your voice and knows you’re there.

A click sounds as the automatic lock to the main door releases. A young caretaker with long, smooth curls wheels my dad out. His hair is pressed flat to his head. Before dementia, he spent more time fluffing his silvery-white hair than any of the women in the family. It’s nauseating to see his hair so greasy. As the caretaker checks in with the receptionist, she absent-mindedly strokes my dad’s hair—the way a distracted parent might caress their child’s head while waiting in line at the bank.

I feel a rush of love for this woman in purple scrubs. A deep gratitude for her ability to accept my dad as he is now without ever having known what he was like before: a snappy dresser, Old Spice cologne, an armchair philosopher. I feel momentary relief from a burden I don’t let myself acknowledge: is my dad okay here? Is he taken care of? Do they care about him?

I decide I will cut my husband’s hair. I will make time for it, maybe tomorrow night. He’ll sit in the folding chair in front of the full-length mirror in our basement bathroom. I’ll run my palm over the top of his head and marvel at the sparkling white hairs that poke out of the silky black. And we’ll talk. Over the clattering noise of the clippers, we’ll talk about the things only we know about each other, things that no one else knows.

Trista is a writer, artist, and writing coach. Much of her work celebrates food—growing it, cooking it, and eating it. Recent essays have been published in Bacopa Literary Review, Farmer-ish, Oregon Humanities Magazine, and Taproot Magazine. Visit www.carrotcondo.com to see her art and read her essays. Visit @carrot.condo on Instagram to say hello.