Yesterday morning started off on a much more ridiculous footing than expected. Just as I was getting ready to start my exercise class, the phone rang and Tom sheepishly admitted that he had locked his keys in his truck at the hardware store and could I come rescue him. So I got dressed and threaded my way downtown through rush-hour traffic and construction stoppages, and there was Tom, sitting on the steps of the hardware store, and I gave him my key to his truck and . . . it wouldn't open the locks. So back we went to the house, to dig out his other spare key, and back we jaunted to the hardware store, and this time Success! and we could head off into our days. Though mine, at this point, did not involve an exercise class.

With that foolishness, we really felt like we were living it up, Monday-wise, and it was nice to have the silly memory to distract me as I plunged into my very-non-silly editing stack. In other good news, Paul tested negative for Covid and he is out of quarantine . . . I know I have not been updating you on the boy's glum week: no symptoms but a positive test, so he was trapped in his apartment for 10 days. Also, I finished reading those contest mss, and that is a big item to cross off my list. 

So today I'll try again with the exercise class, and stagger on into the editing, and boil chicken stock, and go to a flu-shot clinic, and read Margaret Atwood and P. L. Travers, and deal with some Frost Place things, and maybe rake another batch of leaves, and long wistfully for a haircut because with the crazy bad hair I have, my Thursday appointment feels way too far away.

This dithery letter to you could be a metaphor for how my hair looks: flyaway, and featuring strange looping curls like muskox horns.

Writing as hair style. With that notion, one might imagine Henry James with hair like Fabio's instead of being bald as an ostrich egg.