I cut my hair yesterday. Four months of dead ends and lockdown gently snipped off with an old pair of my children’s scissors. My fingers through the little blue handle, the blunt edges zip through my once-thick hair with a satisfying chop and crunch. Before long an hour has passed and I am still snipping and trimming. Bored and daring at the same time. It’s just hair, I remind myself. Still, I revel in the symbolism, happy for the fresh start. Maybe this season will be better. Maybe summer will usher in the hope we all need right now.
Outside I hear car tires roll in the fresh rain puddles as the cat rearranges herself on the couch. It isn’t long before I hear the faithful ice cream truck twirling through the neighborhood sprinkling us with its monotonous and mechanical la-la-las. I gather my shorter hair and play with the smooth ends, tickling my chin with my fresh handy work. Voices are chatting in the distance and an airplane rumbles above. The birds start to percolate again. The cat yawns, her long whiskers sticking out like little urgent radars. The clouds offer a faint peek at a speck of blue and otherwise cast a hopeful yet heavy saturated glow. How does the sky always know how we feel?
The ice cream truck splishes and circles the neighborhood again, round and round to the watering mouths of soggy kids and their haggard parents everywhere. The sky is opening up and the pink and golden hues of sunset start to seep through the thick, dense clouds. The leaves flutter and I can smell the freshly watered trees. I retreat back to the couch, the cats tail swishes and then settles to curl around my foot.
The ice cream truck seems to have faded away with the sunset. I think of those sticky soggy kids with their bellies full of sweetness. To them it’s still the start of summer, to them there is always tomorrow. To them all we have is hope. Even if that’s just waiting for the ice cream truck after the rain.