Written: 2004/09/14.

I was sitting; waiting my turn to get my haircut today and in the humility of such a mundane event one tends to get a sort of clearer picture of what's going on around oneself. Perhaps out of sheer boredom.

I saw a remarkably frail old woman. She was exceptionally small and was being helped about by her daughter, who was also elderly. The old woman had to have been older than 80, maybe even close to 100, as her daughter was no younger than 50 or 60.

As I watched them, I noticed the way the old woman was walking. Each step was painstaking; a single misstep probably could have severely injured her. She was very careful to watch exactly where she was going. She had a kind of persevering quality though. Today, she was getting her hair cut. Nothing was going to stop her and that was that.

She spoke so softly I could hear nothing that she said. She would ask her daughter things and request her aide in moving around. She climbed into the hair stylist's chair with a kind of subtle gracefulness and sat upright peering at herself in the mirror. As she examined herself in the mirror, I had the rare opportunity to look her in the eye, through the mirror.

Through the reflection, I was amazed by what I saw. Her face frowned and looked as though it had been through a thousand bad times and her eyes looked tired and sad but were wide open as if to convey a strong will to embrace life.

Despite my inability to hear her, I was able to infer through the conversation between her daughter and the hair stylist that the old woman wanted her hair cut very short.

And so the cut began. Maintaining the everlasting noble stature, the hair came off. When the hair stylist had finished, the old woman motioned for it shorter. During the second cut, I noticed a similarly fascinating look on the old woman's daughter's face. There was a smiling pride in the face as well as a sadness in her eyes, like her mother. When the hair stylist finished a second time, the old woman again thoroughly examined her hair through the mirror. She finished and then rose from the chair, apparently satisfied with the haircut.

As her daughter helped her move to the cash register, they passed by me. The old woman noticed I had been watching them and said to me, "I'm sorry for making you wait so long," the only words I ever audibly heard her speak. I said to her I didn't mind and that I wasn't in a hurry.

Maybe I should have told her as well that watching her get a haircut was probably the most valuable way I've spent 20 minutes of my life in the last several weeks. That woman clings to life more than anyone I've ever met. I wonder if I'd persevere as well if placed in her situation.