Coronavirus Days--Week 13
Mid June. I only know how many weeks it's been since I started marking the days by looking at my last blog entry. Last week we rejoined the world a bit. It had been since late March, when Denver's stay at home order went into effect, that Whitman got to hang with his dog walker and pack. Even though dog walking could legally fall into the orders, we didn't feel comfortable since it wasn't necessary; we didn't want to put anyone at risk. Even though there was mask wearing. Even though she brought her own leash. Even though all the necessary safety protocols were in order.
We've been rule following because that helps Nan and me feel as comfortable as possible in this sea of fear that sometimes dissipates with the brightness of our flowers and the comforts from our garden. It feels right. And so we've been mostly in our very small world except for some venturing for groceries, other necessities, and some take-out. That's felt good to us.
And so, with things reopening probably way too quickly for our taste, we have begun to venture, ever so slightly. Last week, Whitman got to hang out with his dog pals and walker, a necessary joy for a dog that needs plenty of stimulation and socialization. Our small world is sometimes not enough for him. Twice a week, I sit on the porch with Whitman, awaiting his pals, and when they arrive, I take off his leash and let him run to his friends; when he returns, he is let loose and he runs back to me. All contactless. All with more than ten feet.
For months, just about four months, I've been watching my hair get a bit crazy. Long. Way longer than I have ever let it grow. When I would look in the mirror, I didn't like the look. It felt too foreign. Not me. But over time, I stopped caring. It looked wild some days as I set out to walk Whitman. I figured people would just assume it was a covid look, a lack of access to a hair salon look. During some of the months, I thought that I might have to buy some cutting shears and have Nan's cousin, a hair stylist states away, guide Nan through a cut of my hair. But fortunately, I surrendered at some point to hair I didn't like. It didn't seem to matter in the face of deaths and cases increasing.
But when word that salons were reopening last month hit, I knew I would outlast my hair angst and eventually be ready to venture for a cut. My salon follows all the safety rules. My appointment was the second cut of the day, early morning; no other stylists were working yet except mine. A risk. Yes, but one I felt willing to take. A 6 according to the article rating the risk of 36 activities. Nervous. Yes. Did I relax at times? Mostly, but I knew I was sitting in an enclosed space, in close proximity of someone talking, aware of the risk even though we were both masked.
These times are not without risks. I do not wish to live in a bubble where I don't leave the house and live in constant fear. I cannot. But I do wish to minimize risks, make our home a safe place for Nan and I. A haven. I've been thinking lots about Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach", a certain resonance for these days.
For documentation sake, and a visual sense, below are my before and after haircut pics.
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