Another Victim of September 11

My hairdresser’s husband was laid off from his job at Boeing following the September 11th attacks on the Trade Center.  He was one of the last of the cuts, for he was a good worker who had been with them since his graduation from my college.  He received a special unemployment packet because the loss of his job was directly connected to 9/11.

Every six weeks or so when I would go to their house in order to get my hair trimmed, I would visit with him for a bit while I waited for my turn.  He was always busy with something in the garage: the boat or the car or something for a friend.  He was a handy guy, amiable and nice to his wife’s clients. I enjoyed him, but knew that the stress of not working was eating on him.

While trimming my hair, my hairdresser and I would talk about some of the difficulties trying to help our partners deal/cope/handle being unemployed, not able to find work.  I would catch her up with my fella’s progress—his depression and his hopelessness feeling and his anger.  Then she would quietly echo my words.  Everyone seemed to be trying, but no one was getting it right.

In order to pay the bills, she started back to work fulltime.  She got a gig at two different elderly centers—assisted living centers.  He stayed home and tinkered with cars.  She drove the kids to their normal activities.  He stayed home and tinkered.  She worked another once-in-a-while gig; money was too short.  He stayed home and tinkered.

He refused to look for work, believing that any job was not good enough and that Boeing would call him back to work soon.  She started cutting hair evenings and weekends at home.  Bill collectors began calling; she quit answering the phone and told him to deal with the debts himself.  She made sure the kids had food and the mortgage was paid.  The credit card bills kept stacking up because he needed things.

And still he stayed home and tinkered.

Finally my fella got a job, a job that makes him feel better about himself.  She and I talked about how my fella’s depression was still there somewhere, which finding a job didn’t necessarily take care of this problem.  She and I sighed together and turned our focus to her kids.  Those were much happier thoughts.  We laughed a great deal and sometimes she would cut my hair so I looked like Zippy the Pinhead.  She always corrected this before I left for home.

Last Friday I went for another trim, this time meeting her at one of the assisted living centers.  We talked about how fortunate she was that she was able to stop cutting hair at home because she had a job someplace every day but Sunday.  The sad part, she said, was she had to stop working at her children’s school.  She had to stop traveling with her elder daughter, who was a young-teen champion ice skater, had to stop watching her 13-year-old son wrestle, had to stop spending time with her 10-year-old daughter.  But the major bills were being paid.  She could take pride in this, she said.

His former supervisor told her husband that Boeing would soon be calling him back to his old job.  I said this was good news, but she wasn’t optimistic.  This had been said well over a month ago in passing one afternoon.  So far, nothing had come of it.  I looked at her face through the mirror.  She seemed to be havin

g difficulty cutting my hair.  She looked up and met my eyes.

“We’re getting a divorce,” she said.  And only then did she cry.

peace~~