My aborted career as a hair stylist

I am a hospice volunteer. Once a week, I sit with a terminally ill person for a few hours so the primary caregiver can take a much-needed break. It is a wonderful service, but its biggest advantage is that it allows me to be selfish. I get to work through my death anxiety even as I fool people into thinking I’m nicer than I am.

Hospice work builds my character, too. Volunteers are told to leave their judgments at the front door. For me, this is no small feat. I have made progress during the 15 years I have been volunteering, but it certainly hasn’t generalized to other areas of my life.

One area in which I don’t hesitate to be judgmental is the referral process. WAY too many doctors suggest hospice too late in the process for people to benefit from it. Since 1994, I have known only two patients for any significant length of time. So, when people wonder if hospice volunteering is sad, my answer is—unfortunately—“not often enough.”

Surprisingly, there can be much humor in hospice. Once, my supervisor called to ask me if I would accept a patient who had a rash in her genital area. “No, problem,” I told her.

“Wait, she said. There’s more. Whenever the patient pees, you’ll have to wash her bottom and then blow dry her pubic hair.”

Jesus. I’m a hospice volunteer, not a hair stylist. I don't have nearly enough talent for that.

Before I accepted the assignment, there was stuff I needed to know. Does the patient use styling products? Was she going for straight, wavy or curly? I didn’t ask about her hair dryer or brushes; I sure as shit wasn’t going to bring mine.

I accepted the assignment, but my pre-visit anxiety was sky-high. To allay my fear, I formulated a simple plan for my patient. No liquids. I didn’t care if she had feasted on potato chips and feta cheese for hours before I arrived. If she wanted a drink, she was going to have to get out of bed and get it herself. I would neither aid nor abet. I’m not a medical professional, but I knew that what went into her would eventually come out, and I surely did not want to “go there.”

When I arrived at her apartment, she was--of course--finishing an extra-large milkshake. For every second of that visit, I paced, anxiously awaiting her husband’s return. Lucky for me, he came back in record time. He said he “hated to leave her alone.”

Bingo. Another opportunity to be selfish...and come out smelling like a rose.

I told him that I wouldn't hear of putting him through that anxiety ever again. “From now on, I’ll do the errands and you can stay home with your wife!” He protested, but only a bit. "Seriously, it's no problem at all! “I’d be happy to do it!” I reassured him.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.