There comes a moment in every man’s life when he must face a profound question: How did I get here? Mine first arrived about 10 years ago when Carol had rotator cuff surgery. And now following a series of health surprises aka Carol’s weird maladies (and that’s straight from the doctors’ mouths) Mister Charles is at it again.
For me, that moment usually occurs while standing in the bathroom holding a blow dryer.
Yes, a blow dryer. Because, trust me, what the hair stylist does never quite translates to Carol’s styling abilities. In short, when it comes to blow drying hair, her “lopsided” vision leaves her defeated every time.
Once upon a time, I was simply a husband. But sporadic caregiving has a remarkable way of expanding one’s résumé. Suddenly, I am a part caregiver, part driver, part beauty consultant, and—much to my surprise—part hairdresser.
It begins innocently enough.
“Can you dry my hair?”
Of course, I say.
Five minutes later, I’m holding the blow dryer like a power tool, wondering why it has three heat settings and what, exactly, “cool shot” means. I move it from one side of her head to the other, trying to remember whether I’m supposed to point it at the roots, the ends, or simply wave it around until something happens.
Then comes the brush.
This is where things become complicated.
Apparently, hair has opinions.
It curls when it is supposed to straighten, flattens when it is supposed to have volume, and develops a mysterious personality of its own. Mr. Charles has learned that Carol’s hair can require more strategy than assembling furniture without instructions.
There is also the matter of temperature.
Too hot: “That’s burning!”
Too cool: “Are you drying it?”
Too much air: “You’re blowing my hair everywhere!”
Too little air: “Are you even using the dryer?”
At some point, I begin to suspect that this is less a caregiving task and more an examination for which I was never given the study guide.
And yet, I persist.
I dry. I brush. I fluff. I occasionally stand back and admire my work only to hear, “You missed a spot.”
Apparently, there is always a spot.
The transformation is complete when I start offering unsolicited advice: “I think we need to lift this side a little.”
At that point, everyone knows the truth.
Publisher Charles has become Mr. Charles – the hairdresser.
Not by training. Not by choice. But by love, necessity, and an increasingly intimate relationship with a blow dryer.
And frankly, I’m getting rather good at it.
As of this publication, we’ve been married an incredible 55 years – so I’ve had lots of experience on the job!
