Waiting for the elevator on the fourth floor of the rehab center where my husband Peter was recovering from a stroke, was a strange-looking dude. Wearing boots and faded jeans, his red hair was to his shoulders where it met up with a 6”-8” bushy beard, also red.
Thirty minutes later, an aide came to wheel Peter to his appointment with the traveling haircut person who comes once a week to give haircuts to men and women patients by appointment only. This was the first non-me-given-haircut for Peter since pre-pandemic times. At last.
I decided to watch.
We headed for the “beauty salon” only to find that the dude from in front of the elevator was the traveling haircut guy. Gulp.
Turns out that this guy goes from nursing home to nursing home cutting hair for men and women. He has been doing it for years. He meets interesting people, and he loves to cut hair (unless it is his).
Blasting classical music from his cell phone, he cut Peter’s hair in almost no time, chatting away about his career, how the pandemic hurt his business, and whatever else was on his mind.
I got out my phone to take a picture of their newly-shorn father to send to our children, and the haircut guy placed Peter in front of the mirror so that the photo would show front and back.
I never learned his name. To me, he’ll always be “The Haircut Guy”