Dweezy encouraged me to pick up the phone and make a hair appt. or even pop into a salon as a walk-in, and I actually did.

My hairdresser’s name is Cecilia. I never tell you people’s real names, but her name is really Cecilia. If you were motivated and clever enough to figure out who she is, then this would just be good marketing for her. At the point at which I realized that I was too old for long hair, I asked one of my more glamorous-looking customers to recommend someone who could cut my hair well without my being able to help much. Cecilia was an excellent choice, because she is not overly influenced by her clients. She says, “I aim to please, but you have to look good.”

When #2 daughter wanted a French twist for prom, Cecilia asked about her dress and said, “I think we’ll do something Irish.” #2 daughter, being an exotic Eurasian girl, looked a little dubious, but Cecilia was right. And when said daughter decided to have her hair cut all to about 2″ except for long swoops in the front, Cecilia did her a sort of Josephine Baker bob instead, and she was right that time too.

As for me, I never go in with a plan. I just make it clear that I cannot be expected to do anything with my hair besides washing it, and put myself in Cecilia’s hands.

So I called for an appointment, for myself and #1 son. It took longer than it should have because I could not remember the name of the salon. Considering that I have not only been going there for years, but also pass by it every weekday between #2 son’s school and the gym, I am impressed that my brain was capable of forgetting it. I took a deep breath and came up with the name of the place, looked up the number, and called.

Cecilia was surprised to hear from me. When I let six months go between appointments, she does sound surprised. I think she figures I have gone to some other stylist. “My family is looking kind of shaggy,” I said. Sometimes four or five of us go at once and take up her whole morning, but my husband put his foot down and took #2 son to a barber last week. He couldn’t see his grandparents looking like that. Poor kids. #1 son held out for Cecilia.

So next Saturday I will have a haircut. I also drove myself to class when Partygirl was out of town (usually, if she doesn’t go, I don’t go either), drove to the grocery in the dark, and answered my phone a number of times. I have been reading my anti-agoraphobia book in my agoraphobe’s garden. See, back in the far corner? To the left of this photo is the garden, composed mostly of crape myrtle trees. Here is the view from the chair. It was raining at the time — sometime last June, I think. Right now it isn’t as lush as this, but there are still plenty of vertical elements.

This morning I am singing “He Was Despised” from Messiah at the Presbyterian church (last minute solo — that’s what comes of answering your phone) and then who-knows-what at the Methodist church. I think the music there tends to be rather extemporaneous. Then I clean and cook some more, pick up the houseguests, and go to their concert. And then another work week begins.

I finished cutting out the quilt pattern yesterday and ironed it onto the fabric, a process which is harder than it sounds. I was not successful in persuading either of the guys in the house at the time to help me, and was fairly snippy to them about that. I assume that the hard part is now over and the rest will be easier. If not, I can always retreat to Hopkins. I am about two inches short of the armscye shaping, so it will be Easter before I finish the back. It was 70 degrees here yesterday and the dogwoods are blooming, but it has snowed on the dogwoods before. #1 daughter had snow yesterday, as I worked in my rose garden. I may still have an opportunity to wear Hopkins this season.

LikeWowMom and CheriM posted photoblogs. Not their trips to work, but since they are SAHMs, that would be impractical. The daily round, or the homeschool experience, seem like good alternatives. I like seeing where people live. It adds a dimension to my mental images of you. Sometimes seeing a picture of a person you’ve developed a mental image of a can be a shock, though. I had always thought that Susan Stamberg of NPR was a large black woman given to wearing Chanel suits. When I ran into a picture of her (looking up her special cranberry relish recipe), I was startled. I thought Terry Gross was a Diane Sawyer type, too. Just goes to show you can’t tell what a person looks like from her voice. Or, perhaps, from her blog.