Today I went to the hairdresser and got my hair tamed, trimmed and coloured. It’s now- temporarily- sleek and sophisticated, like wot I would like to be. It’s straight and I can flick it about. In a few days the curly mop will have returned and all pretence at sophistication will be on hold for another few months. I’m as happy as usual with my hair; but I wasn’t looking forward to going today. I had to tell the hairdesser about Herself, a former regular client, one she always asks about and whose striking good looks and white hair she always comments on. It was the first time I’d had to say “she died” since the calls to the aunties and uncles two weeks ago. It was just as difficult. There were more tears. In public. (The spohistication came later.)
It’s two weeks today since she left us. We’ve had a wake and a funeral and a holiday. Dammit, I’m ready to see her now. I want to tell her about sunshine and wet suits. I want to entertain her with tales of who did what at the wake. I want to make her smile at me struggling to count to 10 when saying the Rosary. I want her to laugh at the story of the fancy pearls.
The other appointment today was with the solicitor. Practical business. What do we do about? No, she didn’t leave a large estate; she’s been paying nursing home fees for two years, how could she have? He’ll let us know what needs done, get a minion to do it, and then charge the small estate a fortune for it. (I’m paraphrasing, you understand.) The Handsome Husband was there, looking more lost than ever. He listened carefully to all that was said and done, and then asked a question which made it clear he hadn’t understood a word. When we got outside he turned to me and said “What was all that about?” I’m not sure how much more heartbreak I can deal with today.