Stray Hair

I appreciate the technology in my broom closet.  There is a small collection of electricity driven machines which (according to the fine print in the owner’s manual), will void my house of excess dust, webs, sand and pet hair.

The last category has been the bane of my housekeeping attempts for decades. And my house is just the same as yours if you love animals. We all have friends who invite us into their homes and allow us to leave with a few stray hairs discreetly tucked into the folds of our outfits.

As a pet sitter, I may have more tolerance than some.  If a client has their pet hair remover gadget in plain sight, I will use it. I guarantee that I will miss a spot (usually behind me somewhere). If not, I leave their place and take with me all the evidence of my profession.  When working, I am not concerned about my momentary upkeep.

Having some other’s hair and smell works to my advantage and allows another’s companion extra time to see where I’ve been.  A strange calling card perhaps, but I become rather irresistible and gain entry with a false sense of confidence.

As a pet owner (parent), I acknowledge my responsibility to keep my home clean and pet hair minimal.  I choose the word “minimal” rather than “free” because I am prone to telling the truth.  My house has never been pet hair free.  I think it’s impossible. I used to try to remove the hair in layers; first sticky tape, then vacuum, then tweezers for the textured fabrics.  I have tried to match my upholstery to the coat color of my dogs, but that was senseless and was a waste of time, what with all that buying of slip covers.

And then, I had an epiphany. It came to me while spring cleaning and rediscovering a locket. It belonged to my mother. It was sterling and lovely. No date or engraving to identify its’ contents. The tiny photograph, carefully trimmed to fit the heart shaped inset, was paired with a lock of my hair. I’d forgotten that my hair was once strawberry blonde. I’d forgotten how my mother mourned the day it turned brown.  I’m adopted, you see, and when God laid me in her arms, at 35, she became a mother for the first time. She was a red head her entire life.  I can’t remember when her natural coloring became her hairdresser’s secret, but I remember her hair.

In a funny sort of way, I have a connection with hair. No matter how hard I try, a stray one remains with me. Maybe it belonged to my own beloved pets or perhaps it was an unexpected gift from the companion of another. And maybe the universe’s gift to me, at this stage of life, is the knowledge that we must choose carefully what carbon footprint we leave behind. I will make certain that mine includes a stray pet hair or two.