The Question Changed

After Caitlin died, I didn't cut my hair or get those gray-hiding highlights. Not for any reason other than, all I was capable of doing was grieving. Crying, writing, reading, visiting her grave, pouring over condolence cards, holding her blanket, her cloths, and pictures. Grief work.

About a year later, the first visit to the hair dresser brought with it, unfortunately, fodder for more grief work. Sitting next to 8-month pregnant new mom, I tried to avoid hearing the conversation. I could avoid her answers, but I remember hearing the questions. "What is it?" "Is this your first?" "Did you pick out a name?"

My hairdresser, absent minded, though understandably so, asks me, "Do you have any children?" I told her yes, but that my daughter died shortly after birth. "I'm sorry" was followed by more questions, that I'm sure new mom was desperately trying not to hear. I left emotionally beaten--with an external look that no longer matched insides--a great cut with beautiful blond highlights.

Nearly every haircut since is accompanied by the question, "Do you have any children?" I always answer the same and then listen like an academic to how they react, what they say or ask or advise. Gratefully, everyone of them responded with a sincere "I'm sorry." Some will automatically recount someone they know or who knows someone who has lost a child . . . or lost something like a house or a pet. Some brush it off with suggestions that I "just have another" or "get a dog" or "you can always adopt"--they have no idea how difficult adoption can be.  Some gently ask what happened. They ask for her name. They ask how I'm doing.

Two days ago, I walked into a salon and sat down to get my haircut. But, this time the question changed. "So, how many children do you have?" "How odd," I think, "how could she possibly know that I was a mom? No one recognizes motherhood in a mom whose only child is dead." I give my usual answer and then settle into my academia. She was mortified and the "Oh, I'm sorry" nearly made her choke. I felt bad about that, but reason that empathy is good for people and helping people avoid a natural and appropriate response by lying and saying that I don't have children is bad for the human race. What I mean is, it's OK for her to feel. In short she recovered with "Are you going to have more? You can always adopt. Or get pets." While I wish that these statements could make me feel better. But until a hairdresser can bring my child back to life, I will forever endure their need to reach their own equilibrium upset by the knowledge that they now know someone whose baby died. I endure it because they need me to hear their efforts, it relieves that rock in their throat. I don't mind--anymore. I gently respond to each question, with silence. It's the best I can do. I'm at last successful with releasing both of us from the conversation with "Well, when you experience a tragedy like this, you learn to let life be as it is."

Then I leave the chair with a great haircut and smiling. Why smiling? Because someone assumed that I was a mom. She may have done this as a result of my non-highlighted hair--translation--because I'm old. But, "belief makes things real" and I'd like to believe that the assumption was a result of seeing that I carry Caitlin with me where ever I go.