From Grief, Gratitude

Some days, I don’t want to do hair. Some days, I don’t want to do hair ever again. I don’t think I can explain the taxing nature of being a hairstylist well. I’ve tried, and I don’t think I can capture what it feels like to people outside of the industry. Every job has its challenges, of course, but I think anytime I’ve tried to help someone understand why I’m exhausted, I fail to capture the breadth of it all. I can say, it’s exhausting to talk all day, and that doesn’t feel like an accurate description, and people say, oh, I know, I work at, say, a bank, I talk to people all day too and I know that they don’t understand. They don’t understand that brief interactions with purpose, followed by a break in between customers, is not the same.

They don’t understand, because they don’t have the burden of carrying on a conversation for hours at a time, to be entertaining, a performer, a confidant, a therapist. To never let the conversation slow down or get weird, to just keep talking no matter what because silence in the salon is uncomfortable. They don’t need to lie about needing to go to the bathroom so that they can cry and breath and just not talk for a few minutes. I can say, it’s physically exhausting, but that’s not it either. This isn’t exclusive to bankers, obviously, but it’s a solid example of how talking to people all day and talking to people all day can be very different things. And then there is the pressure of perfection, and expectation. Every person I see, wants and needs something from me, and they want it to be perfect, and this can feel like the weight of the world some days, especially for someone like me that tends to teeter on the verge of overstimulated and highly sensitive most days.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that when I finally decided to be a hairstylist. I’ve been a licensed stylist since 2011, and a hairstylist by nature my entire life. As a little girl, I put my entire identity into how high I could get my bangs. As a teenager, it was how long and straight I could get my hair. I was the unofficial official hairstylist for my mom, my sisters, and my friends. When I committed to cosmetology school in 2009, after almost going years before but pursuing (and receiving) my degree instead, memories of my obsession with hair crept out of the recesses of my memory. Only wanting Barbies to do their hair, wanting a cornsilk Cabbage Patch doll so I could do its hair, because yarn hair was limiting. Subscribing to Teen Magazine and YM, not for the articles on boys or clothes, but for how-to’s on hair and makeup. I don’t think I chose to be a hairdresser anymore than I chose to be a writer. These are two things that chose me, and I had no option but to comply. These two things I am good at, that seem to come very naturally to me, and these two things bring me joy, a sense of calm, and a sense of purpose. The difference between writing and hair though, is that some days, I don’t want to do hair.

Today though, today is not one of those days.

I woke up at 5:30 today with a plan: even though I had plenty of time to sneak in a few clients before vacation, I decided to block my schedule and have the day to my leisure, taking care of tasks. I planned to do my morning gratitude list while drinking my coffee, clean the house, pack for the trip I was leaving on in the afternoon, drop the dog off for boarding, go to acupuncture, then go to the airport. And then sometime around 8 I looked at my phone, and I saw a message from a client. My client is a mother, and she let me know that her son had tragically died, and asked if there was any way I could get her in today to freshen up her highlights and her haircut so that she could look better than she felt for his viewing and his funeral. She sent me the link to his obituary. And I sat on my couch, stunned, crying for her, sitting in sadness for her as it all sank in, saying “I’m so sorry,” to the air, and then I said, “Can you come in at 9?” All the other stuff could wait, the acupuncture appointment rescheduled. There was nothing more important than this.

As I got ready to meet her at my salon, I wondered- what on earth do I say to a woman that lost her son? And not from the things you worry about as a parent- things like car accidents and fentanyl overdoses or childhood cancer. He was at a party, celebrating his birthday, a random group of local kids showed up, there was a fight, and he was beaten unconscious. He died seven days later at the hospital. What do I say? How do I comfort her, offer support? Do I encourage her to talk about it? Offer platitudes that no parent wants to hear but they feel nice to suggest, like “at least he isn’t suffering?” Do I try and talk about other things? Will that feel callous and selfish? Do I ask her questions, or is that prying and maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore? I have never in a situation quite like this. I have had a client that lost a son from illness. I had clients- husband and wife- that died together in a motorcycle accident a few days before their oldest son’s wedding, and a few days after getting their hair done for that wedding. Both things were incredibly sad, but this was different. Her son’s death involved so much suffering, and I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to screw this up.

So, I just did what came naturally. When I pulled up, she was waiting on the bench outside. Her already tiny frame frailer than before. Her tank top on inside out. And a smile, clouded by grief, but if you didn’t know what she was going through, she might just look like a woman to you. That is the most incredible part, seeing her strength. You think, how is she just in the world when her heart is in pieces? How? How is she just out here doing normal things when I’m sure she wants to hide under the covers for eternity, just missing her child. Maybe its numbness, one of the stages of grief, exhaustion. I don’t know. But while I thought about her on the drive to work, imagined her getting that phone call, crying for her, picturing her with puffy, bloodshot eyes, there she was, no puffy eyes, still standing, supported by a mother’s love that seemingly keeps her propped up on days like this. And we got to work.

As I did her hair, she talked. She told me what happened. That night, the nights after. The investigation. The videos she had to watch. She told me about how her son started to make a recovery, was awake, talking, knew she was there and who she was. Said, “yeah, that’s my mom.” Like, of course I know who that is. She told me about how suddenly, he took a turn, and how she held his hand as he took his last breath. She told me about how he loved space and showed my pictures of him as a baby. She asked about my vacation, what I was doing, who I was seeing, where I was going. I tried to not say anything stupid but tried to be encouraging and supportive. I listened, and cried, and then apologizing for being a crier. She told me about his brother, who’s hair I also do. I gave her the product I bought for him to use in his hair that he never had a chance to pick up. She trusted me. And in all this, I remembered why I do what I do.

Today, a mother went to see the body of her son a week after saying goodbye to him in the hospital. Tomorrow, she will attend his funeral. But in her grief, in her sadness, she needed to be cared for herself. She reached out to me so that I could give her something that no one else could, and that was a sense of togetherness. I don’t know if that’s the right word- togetherness. I don’t know that any of these words are the right words. But today a mother did something a mother should never have to do, and I had the privilege and honor of being part of her day.

Sometimes I feel like what I do doesn’t matter, that it’s not an important job, but then I get a text message at 11:40 pm that I don’t see until 8 am the next day, reminding me that what I do is important. That it isn’t just hair. That it is helping people. That it is being a support system, a secret keeper, a friend. That it is helping this woman, this mom, feel better about facing the world, better about facing all the people that will come to mourn her son, and facing one of the hardest, and most important days of her life, because she asked me to. In all the things she needed to do, she thought of me, because she wanted to feel better about herself. And as much as I can’t explain how tiring doing hair can be, I also can’t explain how humbling an experience like this can be. I don’t have the vocabulary word for the feeling, not one that is adequate. But gratitude is in there somewhere. Gratitude for being able to give that gift, when words aren’t enough.

It's funny how things work. If my flight had been earlier in the day, or if I had clients booked already, I wouldn’t have been able to do this for her. But it’s as if the universe already had a plan and kept that space open for her. I am so grateful that my day was open, and I am grateful I saw her text, and I am grateful that I could see her smile when she looked into the mirror. And I am grateful for days like today to remind me that I get to do something very special every day, for special people, and for special moments. Some days I don’t want to do hair anymore, and then there are days like today where I am so glad that I do.

P.S. Hug your loved ones. Make amends. Forgive. It all goes so fast.