An Epiphany – LIFE AS A HUMAN

In June 2002, my wife and I rented a cottage on Lake Huron, about 10 kilometers from Tobermory. Our daughter Sophia was two and hadn’t yet learned to say “Oh …. my….. God Dad”.

Back then we could holiday in the off season. We had warm weather and no one around except for two retirees that would slowly raise their hand to us on their morning walk.

I was in the tiny washroom; pine board walls and a green furry bathmat. I was blow drying my hair hoping not to pop a fuse. The light was terrible. Over the toilet, a yellowed note listed what not to flush into the septic system. I turned off the blow-dryer. I decided that I was done with it, done with hair.

For more than twenty years I had sported a fifties hair style. Pompadour, sideburns, the real deal, like Elvis before he got into sequins. Every day I’d rub thick gel into my hair until it was stiff and brittle. After that I added hairspray that fell like a cloudy mist of model airplane glue.

As I stood there, I figured I had performed the ritual over seven-thousand times. That’s considering missed days due to illness, and double ups if I’d been caught in bad weather, or, god forbid, I wore a hat.

Everyone knew me for my hair. My trademark. It was me.

I sat the blow-dryer on the toilet and went to the living room. The cottage was old and cozy. It had large windows that swung open wide to face the lake. A perfect breeze drifted through. The shoreline was less than 50 feet away. My wife and daughter were wading and tossing round stones into the shallow water. Our dog was occupied in the tall grass.

I had my barber scissors in my hand. I always carried a pair in my travel pouch, the good scissors. I stood tall, opened the screen door and walked to the water. “Honey,” I started with Honey. “Could you cut my hair?”

My wife slowly turned to me. “Now?”

I let my shoulders drop for effect. “Soon?” I asked.

“I don’t think I could do a good job,” she said as we kept our eyes on Sophia.

“Just cut it all off. Like a buzz cut.” I was losing courage but not resolve.

She laughed. “Nice try.”

“No No I’m serious,” I said. I could see by her face that she didn’t believe me. I hadn’t considered the credibility of my declaration. I didn’t dare crack a smile.

She cocked her head to one side. “Really?”

“Really.” I remained stoic on the outside. “Really,” I added again instantly thinking I sounded like a bad liar.

Her eyes squinted. “But we don’t have an electric hair clipper.”

“These scissors will do the job.” I held them up.

“Are you sure about this? Why don’t you wait until we get home and you can go to a barber.”

This wasn’t playing out how I imagined. She was giving me delay time which I didn’t want. It was such a sudden revelation that I hadn’t subjected her to my customary days and days of verbally sorting it out.

“It has to be soon.” I said, “Actually now.” I put the scissors on a rock and picked up Sophia, her wet feet dripping on my T shirt. “I really want to do this. Can you help?”

I then saw in her eyes that she understood.

“OK. Get a lawn chair and we’ll cut it outside on the deck.”

I sat there for ten minutes watching chunks of hair slide down my chest. The previous twenty years screamed through my mind. Was I taking a step toward middle age? Was I giving up? Would I have the urge to spend winters in Florida? What the hell was I doing?

My wife stood back. She circled the chair. “It looks good.”

I watched her closely searching for honesty. My hair was gone. My first thought was that I had five days to grow it back before we went home.

“I think you’ve done the right thing,” she said.

On the following Saturday we drove home. I rubbed my head. I felt free. I realized how much constraint my hair had put on me, how for over twenty years I had securely bolted myself to the image.

I definitely looked different. I figured that my friends were being polite when they said I looked good. What true Canadian would say anything else? Opinion comes from a deep place, from our individual versions of life and ourselves.

I cut my hair off because I had to, because I was afraid to lose what I had attached my whole self to. The hair had to go.

After a month into my new haircut I had no regrets. I actually had a strange feeling of renewed confidence. My musician friends still asked me to drum with them, they still liked me. No one seemed to really care. They carried on as before, maybe even better because I felt so much better.

In August, two months into the buzz cut, I mentioned to my wife that I’d like to take a night course, something creative. She suggested writing.

My answer was, “I never write.”

She smiled and said, “I think you might enjoy it.”

I’ve been writing ever since.

The conclusion…… baldness leads to revelation which leads to writing which leads to endless revelation.

One epiphany leads to another.

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Guest Author Bio

Jeffrey Griffiths
Jeffrey Griffiths lives in Hamilton Ontario with his amazing kids and lovely wife. He has been published in many literary journals and other places and of course in Life as a Human.