Get Knotted

“So, when do you go back?”

Mark was playing with the stem of his wine glass, glancing down at Milly in irritation as she crunched breadsticks into sand on the tablecloth. A frown furrowed his brow; the same two deep lines his mother also sported when she had something on her mind.

“Work? Oh, eight days.”

He glanced up. “Eight more? Jeez. Never known you to take this long.” Then he dropped his gaze once more, gently pushing Milly away from the table before starting to heap the crumbs together into a mound, making a snowplough from the sides of his tanned hands.

“Well deserved, though,” Sally interjected, with a soft smile.

Milly wriggled out of her seat and shuffled over to her mum, leaning against her tightly. I could almost feel the sharpness of her elbows, her sticky little fingers as she pummelled Sally’s leg like a kitten. I wondered how it was Sally didn’t react, save to brush a few strands from her daughter’s face, gently.

I returned her gaze and gave a little smile of appreciation. “I had to. Had hardly taken anything so far this year, and then there was the backlog carried over from last... they made me book it. Didn’t want to pay me, instead, I guess.” I chuckled. “What with the retirement coming so soon.”

I didn’t need to say that last part out loud. Everyone would know what I meant, and why. But saying it was helpful. It brought it out of the shadows. Made me confront it. Or start to.

Jennifer appeared back at that table, catching my last few words. “He’s telling you about his enforced relaxation, is he? What a chore.” She rolled her eyes as she pulled out her chair. “I’ll be glad when it’s mandatory for him to stay at home. He’d never opt to spend time with me by choice.” She said it with a laugh in her voice. A tinkle. A smile.

But I knew.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Sally said.

“It’s been a very long time coming.” Jennifer shrugged, as if that were proof enough. “Oh, and I asked for the bill.” She tapped Mark on the sleeve. “Your father can pay, while he’s still a wage earner.”

“Ah, yes. It’ll be our turn to look after you, soon.” He waggled a finger at me before downing the rest of his Merlot, glugging it awkwardly. His Adam’s apple danced as he pushed it down. “No steak, next time, old man!”

It was a peculiar thing, this relentless ribbing. A series of insults masquerading as joy – and none of them warranted. I had always paid for lunch. I always would. And I really didn’t need ‘looking after’. But for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything when they went on in this way.

The truth was, I had delayed retirement. And I hadn’t avoided taking holidays, exactly, but simply hadn’t felt the need, or the calling, or that it was ever a good time. I liked my job. I liked being useful. And this set-up was useful to the family, too. This absence from the household, with me in my self-contained little world, where no one had to think about me or consider who I was or what to do with me.

Because I was my job, and whenever I wasn’t at it, or being it, I was simply in the way.

How do you explain that you care about them too much to let them find you an annoyance?

“What do you have planned for your last few days of leave?” Sally lifted Milly onto her lap, the little girl’s eyes suddenly glazed, her movements slow. Her mother had spotted the signs by instinct.

“Finally getting that bloody haircut booked in, I hope.” Jennifer leant over to me, flipping strands of hair that had fallen inside my collar. “Look at the state of it. I mean...”

“I’ve done everything else on the list.” I joked. “Car valet. Sorted the garage. Replaced the bread machine. Don’t I get credit for that?” I glanced around, trying to catch the eye of the waiter to speed things up.

“Yes, but darling, the hair! It’s getting desperate.” She wrinkled her nose. “Honestly. It’s so long it’ll start getting knotted, soon.”

Mark grinned, warming to the topic – excited by a whole new world of opportunity for teasing. “You do look like a bit of a hippy, Dad.”

I muttered. “I was aiming more for rock.”

“Rock?” Mark slapped his thigh, delighted, then tipped his head back to laugh. “R-o-c-k!” He wheezed, between peals of laughter. “That’s priceless.”

Sally frowned. “I think it’s fine.”

A waiter bounced on his feet as he hurried towards the table, at first heading towards Mark, before being batted away. I held my bank card up.

“See, darling? You’ll be a laughingstock. It’s time to face up to it. You’re no spring chicken. You’re... well, you’re an OAP.” She pulled a dramatic face, eyes widened, lips pulled into a contorted grimace.

“That’s right...” Mark took a breath and steadied himself. “I mean, I know I was making fun, but really, Dad. You’re heading for retirement. You should embrace it.” He leant forward, settling into the subject matter. “Relax. Potter around the house. Get a sensible haircut. Buy some grey slippers.”

“Yes, slippers,” Jennifer interjected. “Why not?”

“Stop fighting it. Ageing is... well, it's natural. You don’t need to keep doing that.” He waved his hand vaguely – indicating what, I was unsure. But I didn’t ask. “There’s nothing wrong with getting old.” As if I thought otherwise.

“Yes. That’s true. And the beard! It’s about time that went, too.”

I turned to the waiter, who passed me the bill while gracefully holding the card machine in the other hand. Our eyes locked. He could only have been a couple of years younger than me. His nose gave a little twitch, almost imperceptible.

“That’s fine,” I said, having glanced at the bill. “Add 10%, would you?”

He played with the machine, bleeping buttons confidently before passing it back. I tapped my card on the top and waited for the receipt – and all the while, the strange crochet of their language continued in the background, knotted and tangled into an oppressive blanket as Mark pontificated and Jennifer agreed. Occasional words were dropped like stitches about me: old, tired, rest, relax, time.

I let them fall.

Age gracefully. Slow down.

“Thank you,” I said to the waiter. He dipped his head in reply.

Hair cut.

Sally started to pack her bag, one-handed, the other cocooning Milly as she held her to her chest. “Shall we go?” She sighed.

“You will do it, though, won’t you?” Jennifer asked, as she stood. “You will sort your hair?”

The waiter had started to clear up the debris of the meal, piling the remaining plates together, before pushing his long fringe back from his face, with what seemed like a remarkably slow and pointed gesture. He cleared his throat.

“Ok. Ok. I will, indeed... in fact, I’ll make an appointment right now.”

“Really?” Jennifer beamed.

“Really... Now, you two go on ahead, and I’ll make a quick call. Then I can help Sally carry everything out to the car.”

A small charge bristled between Jennifer and Mark as they exchanged glances and silent congratulations.

“Well, see you in a minute then,” Mark said as he guided Jennifer towards the door, leaving Sally to her awkward juggle of bottles and toys and cloths.

“Wait, let me help you,” I said, stepping forward.

“You’ve got a call to make,” she grinned. “Though, for the record, I personally think you should have whatever haircut – and lifestyle – you want.”

I took out my phone once more and opened the list of contacts – best to strike while I was certain. This conversation had confirmed it for me.

It was time.

The line rang just twice before the receptionist answered my call. No turning back now. “Billy’s Barbers. How can I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment, please. I... I can do any day next week.”

“Right, Ok. Just a trim?”

“No, I think I’ll go for a colour. A bright one. Maybe green.”

Sally’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. Then her face split into a delighted grin.

“Oh, I see... the stylist may need a consultation with you first, in that case. To see if you need bleach to lift it, talk through your options... Unless you’ve had this done before?”

“No, no. I’ve never coloured my hair before... I suppose that’s rather the point.”