When I was pregnant last month, I booked an appointment to get a haircut—a preparatory move, I suppose. The appointment was for today. I hesitated briefly this morning wondering if chopping off all one’s hair was a good idea in the wake of a miscarriage, but it looked pretty lank, even thought it's thick and heavy, and the process of drying it had become arduous. It was time. I've never aspired to that Ann Coulter look.
I went back to a stylist I hadn’t seen in several years. We saw a chin-length style picture in a magazine, said “that’s nice” and didn’t dither too much. As she began, she politely inquired about my life, got caught up, and then asked me if I knew about her child, her little boy, age 4.
“If I knew about him?” That sounded ominous. I confessed I didn’t.
“Well, he was diagnosed with autism at age 2.” She told me the story, of the the devastating discovery, and the good fortune they’ve had since then, being completely covered insurance-wise for his treatment and therapy.
The whole time she was talking, snip, snip, snip— great hanks of hair kept dropping to the floor. And I just didn’t care. I was engrossed in her tale, and too drained from recent events to feel much anxiety.
Her story had about the best outcome one can hope for: her child has had such excellent care and therapy that he has now failed to meet the requirements for autism; since he’s still a bit “delayed”, however, the help can continue, and he attends a regular pre-school with a therapist. Most likely, he'll be able to attend school without help in the future.
My haircut had a good outcome too. My head feels six pounds lighter and I feel much more dignified, as if there weren’t such a disparity between the outside of my head and the inside.
12:13:24 PM 
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