down and said, Oh, just forget it. Never mind. He caught hold of my wrist, gently, and said, I want you to do it, go ahead, it’s perfectly fine. I looked around the room and thought for a moment about whether or not I could get sued and how angry Martin would be when he called our lawyer, who did not have a good sense of humor. He was a good lawyer, though, fierce, he hardly ever lost a case. I picked up the scissors again, took a deep cut of Henry’s hair. Then another. Then I said, “So how are things at home?” “Oy,” he said, waving his hand. “Don’t ask.” And we both smiled.
I finished cutting his hair and it looked pretty terrible when I was done. It looked like a bad pixie cut. I said I’m sorry and he said, forget it, he kind of liked it, it certainly was different. Then he said, now it’s your turn and I said you know, maybe I will just let it grow out and he said that would be the healthiest thing to do. He stood up and we shook hands and he gave me a sample bottle of clove-scented shampoo. The place was still absolutely quiet. I knew it wouldn’t be after I left. I also knew that Henry had just done some terrific advertising for himself.
I got in the car and sat there for a while thinking. Then after I started driving I kept looking at my hair in the rearview mirror and it looked really terrible and I kind of wished I’d just kept my mouth shut and gotten my usual color done. But it seems some other part of me has taken hold, has grown huge and suddenly, like mushrooms after a rain. So my hair will look terrible for a while. Cost of admission to a better club, that’s all.
Dear Martin,
I’m staying in a little place in northern Minnesota that is like a cabin/motel. There are six small, detached units: a little house for everyone, and everyone gets a tiny front porch, too. There’s a kitchenette stocked with mismatched dishes and pots and pans, so I went to a grocery store to get some supplies. The notion of cooking again seemed appealing; you get tired of eating out. In addition to which I was eager to eat off the blue willow plate, there was one of those in the cupboard—a coffee cup with pansies, too.
When I got to the grocery store, the oddest thing happened. I found it very, very difficult to buy anything. I would pick something up, then think, no, it’s Ruthie who really likes pineapple. No, Martin is the one who loves London broil. I wanted to get something special, a real treat, something I liked to cook and liked even more to eat, but everything I picked up, I put back. Finally, I leaned against the dairy case and thought, well, come on, Nan, what do YOU really, really like? And then I thought, my God. I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.
Would this happen to you, Martin? If you went into the grocery store looking for something to make just for you (well, I know you never cook for yourself, but pretend you do), would you just walk right over and get everything? I think you would. I think you’d go right up to things, pick them up, pay for them, take them home, cook them and eat them with no sense of anything but pleasure. I guess you’d watch TV while you ate, or read the paper. There would be nothing tangled up inside you, no guilt and despair trying to work their way into the lettuce and baguette and breast of chicken. It is a case of feeling that you deserve things, that they are there for you; and it is something women seem to struggle with, almost without exception, and I don’t know why. I don’t know why men don’t struggle with it. I don’t know where your sense of entitlement comes from. Well, yes I do. It comes from the way you were raised, from everyone telling you, one way or another, that yours is the earth to inherit. That’s true, Martin, and you know it, and there’s no need here for any anger. I mean, I’m not angry, don’t you be. I’m just wondering. I really am. I am just wondering and wondering and wondering. Goddamn it. All our lives, we hand it over. All our