Today, no one knew I was a recovering transplant patient. I was not masked and gloved. Children didn't stare at me, nor did their mortified mothers apologize. Fortunately I saw no children, because they scare me. There were no snot-nosed short people in the hair salon. The supermarket was filled with middle-aged women and the elderly. For approximately 90 minutes, I pretended to be normal. I felt like a fraud but hope that with practice, I can gradually feel comfortable in public again.
I'd been cutting my hair myself for months now, and I was looking a little institutionalized. Bravely, I made an appointment at the hair salon I haven't had to visit since last spring. I figured 10 am mid-week would be a slow time, and I was right. Bob had some good ideas on how to grapple with my different hair textures (tight curls in back, straight on the sides, wavy on top), and as he went to work, I felt almost like a regular person.
I left the salon feeling if not looking years younger. I decided to stop at the local food market to pick up a few things so Marty wouldn't have to later. I made the decision not to mask up if it wasn't crowded. I wiped down the handle of the cart and started to cruise the aisles which were mercifully empty. While I was putting my packages in my car, I remembered what it used to be like, dashing into Dave's to grab a few groceries, blissfully unaware of lurking dangers. The hand sanitizer brought me back to reality, but still, I'd done something I haven't done in a long time. I don't plan to make a habit of this because I wouldn't want to deprive Marty of a task he's come to enjoy, especially since it keeps him in free coffee and the occasional pastry crumb.
If I become ill, this will all have been a very bad idea. But at least my hair will look good.