Or, was I?

Dear reader, was it possible to get my hair coloured and cut and my eyebrows tinted in 30 minutes?

Was I expecting too much from my hairdresser?

Could she perform her usual, quarterly miracle in half an hour?

I can do heaps in 30 minutes.

I can bake the Elizabeth David chocolate cake.

I can do a load of washing.

I can iron my work clothes.

But, can Kim take 10 years off my hair in 30 minutes?

Is it even safe for Kim and the team to be working?

Of course it's not.

It's come to this, hasn't it, dear reader?

Truth is socially isolating for the next two months or so, who will see me?

Will it matter if my roots go crazy-lady grey and likewise my eyebrows disappear from my face?

Will it matter in six months, if I emerge, unrecognisable but alive?

I could see this as an opportunity to evolve gracefully towards my 62nd year.

Or, I could go all desperate and consider self-colouring?

I imagine smarter people will have already stocked their cupboards with hair chemicals alongside their loo paper and booze.

I picture lots of drunk people home waxing, home colouring, giving themselves little home facials as a distraction during long days of Netflix and gin.

I see the potential for lots of beauty accidents.

The good news? Isolation will probably be long enough for any nuclear accidents to grow out.

My husband has a plan.

Our son gave him a home grooming set for Christmas and he reckons he could be our designated hairdresser.

My husband is amazing in many ways.

He is patient. He has a sense of humour. He whistles and makes the god-damned best cup of tea on the planet.

Perhaps, I could just use my nifty collection of headbands and go ballistic with Kim once this moment has passed.

Exactly a year ago my daughter and I drove from Melbourne to Wollongong to be with my mum, who died four weeks later.

It's impossible for me to imagine what families given the same challenges, as they are, manage the logistics and heartbreak of terminal diagnosis during this pandemic life.

You know, dear reader, that every day, people are still being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness, or getting that phone call ... "your mum's had a fall".

It's also impossible to imagine that earlier in March 2019, we booked and paid for flights to Greece, scheduled for September.

Life went on.

As I wrote this column last Sunday, Hawthorn and the Brisbane Lions were playing.

At half time, Gillion McLachlan announced a two-month suspension of the 2020 AFL season.

I wondered if the players were told at the half-time break. I wondered if they got the same lump in their gut that I had going to my work this week?

I won't use 'surreal'. Because there's nothing dreamlike about these days.

The feeling I have is real. This whole experience is real.

Much like my weeks with my dying mum. This is real ... and life goes on.

It's not surreal. It's new.

During an ad break, we muted the tele and heard the children over our back fence, screaming with laughter in the 5pm autumn sunshine.

Aren't we lucky? I have five coloured head bands and a husband with clippers.

Stay safe and stay home and respect the sacrifice thousands of Tasmanians made closing their businesses this week.