Deliver Me

 

The salon is quiet as a tomb and I sit in the chair, trying not to fidget while Anna snips and cuts and hums softly to herself. One reason I like her is that she’s slow and meticulous, another is that after a minute or two of small talk (she asks after my dogs, I ask after her kids) when I first get there, she’s all work. She never feels the need to chatter at or entertain me. I dislike these visits, always feel that something more is required of me rather than just to shut my eyes and let her work but I’ve never known exactly what it is. A trust issue, perhaps. Putting my hair in the care of another after I neglect it for months. I often expect a gentle scolding for waiting so long between appointments but unlike other hairdressers I’ve had, Anna seems to understand and she never raises the issue.

I always make a “first thing in the morning” appointment and I’ve gotten accustomed to being the only client. On this day, however, a second stylist and a second client, both considerably pregnant, arrive. It’s eight in the morning and I’m remarkably unprepared for the conversation that follows. They are two chairs away and I can hear every word and grisly detail about dilation widths and how long it takes, the pros and cons of epidurals, contraction timing, an animated debate about the value of amniocentesis and the C-section vs natural childbirth debate.

Finally there is a graphic discussion of afterbirth and stitches.

“You want to be cut not torn,” Anna says casually, “They can stitch a cut in a straight line but if you’re torn, it’s ragged.”

Both pregnant women enthusiastically agree. As best I can tell, the number of stitches is a badge of honor. It takes me a moment or two to realize that somewhere between natural childbirth and stitches, I began to feel lightheaded and a little shivery. A voice in my head kept repeating Dear God, please, no more, but there’s no mercy and no escape. Anna doesn’t appear to notice my discomfort and the two pregnant women chatter on. Fortunately, their conversation turns to child raising rather than birthing and then to the husband’s role in the process, all the way from conception to the delivery room.

“Imagine,” one cackles, “If men got pregnant!”

“Tell me about it!” the other replies and laughs.

“All done!” Anna announces with a final fluff of my bangs.

You have no idea, I think to myself and run for the exit.