A few weeks ago I treated Leta to a long overdue haircut by my stylist, one that included all the bells and whistles and product that makes you want to smell your own hair constantly even in front of other people. She thought it was a good idea but was worried about one thing. And it wasn’t the scissors.
Leta: “How long will it take?”
Me: “It won’t take that long.”
Leta: “But what if I get bored?”
Me: “You’re not going to get bored. We’ll talk to you the whole time.”
Leta: “What if you run out of things to talk about?”
Me: “Then I’ll perform circus tricks.”
Leta: “MOM.”
Me: “When you get to be my age you kind of want it to take a long time.”
Leta: “Why would you ever want anything to take a long time?”
Me: “Because you are ALONE.”
Leta: “But you’re not alone. The person cutting your hair is right there.”
Me: “Sometimes the definition of ‘alone’ is ‘wherever your kids are not.'”
Leta: “Mom. I’m ten now. You mean ‘wherever Marlo is not.'”
Me: “Exactly. It can mean that. I like being alone when someone is cutting my hair. Or when someone is waxing my eyebrows. Or cleaning my teeth. Or sewing together an open wound with a rusty needle while I am not under anesthesia. All glorious alone time.”
