Before he left this morning, I begged son John to cut my hair. I deemed the timing to be crucial. He reluctantly agreed to do it several weeks ago and did a great job. Since hair grows faster in warmer weather, I was becoming decidedly witch-like when breezes stirred up the curls. Now I’m back to looking like a witch trainee.
The connection to Christmas Trees is this. I think the year was 2011 after some of the young accountants left, the ones who had bought and set up a small artificial tree in the office. I was appointed to do the honors that year. Setting the tree up and tweaking the branches into shape was a breeze, but then I had to look at it every day until January 6. I had been very pleased with the same tree when someone else was in charge, but I found my eyes straying toward it and seeing an ornament askew or a branch dipping too low. That silly Christmas tree haunted me on a daily basis. I couldn’t look at it without finding fault with my work, and it was in my field of vision every time I looked up from my desk. I wanted to shield my son from the same kind of experience. If he had stayed here all day, he might have been critical of his cutting job each time he looked at me. I didn’t want him to chase me around the house with a pair of scissors, trying to get everything just right. I’m happy to say the hair has now been washed, and it arranged itself in a way pleasing to me.