The day after my grandfather died, I was sent home from work at lunchtime. I didn't want to go straight home just to sit on the couch and feel sad, so I went to the mall. I paid a visit to a pleasant, grey-haired, accented man named Baha and asked him to remove several inches of hair from my head. What once reached halfway down my ribcage now hits me just at shoulder level. I feel so much better. It takes a fraction of the time to dry, looks fine (and a little curly!) if I don't bother with the hairdryer, weighs much less, and is just generally an improvement.
As he was beginning to cut, we had this conversation:
Baha: Do you have a husband? Boyfriend?
Me: Yes, a boyfriend.
Baha: . . . Will he be OK?
Me: Heh. He'll survive.
This is not the only change that currently affects me, but as all the others are at a work-supervisory-organizational level, the hair thing is the only remotely interesting one.
Tonight I have high hopes that I will be able to go straight home at 5:30, change into pajama pants and a big t-shirt, and spend the evening playing XBox or watching DVDs. My ambitions are indeed lofty.