Last night was, at long last, the final dose of antibiotics.

It had been two months since this whole eyebrow/the tumor is benign/raging infection thing started; all this time I’ve been avoiding the potential exposure of–who knows what, since it’s not like they’re cutting eyebrows, but don’t ask about logic.

I ran for the haircut I’d been waiting for for so long.

I’m a child of the ’60s and ’70s, I like long hair. But I lost a chunk of mine to skin cancer years ago and it gets awfully thin on the right past a certain point, while what’s left tends to get caught in things when it gets too long. Like the car door when you shut it. I fear the KitchenAid mixer after a relative described her teacher’s long hair getting caught and ripped out by the beaters on hers, and when your hands are gooped in batter is a lousy time to go oh right and try to put it back in a braid.

An old friend who hadn’t seen me in awhile marveled last week, “Your hair is so long!”

And now (sorry/not sorry) it’s not. Just below the shoulders and we’re good. And it is.