I took my husband of almost 40 years for a haircut today. For the first time. I don’t mean that it was his first time getting a haircut, of course. I mean that I TOOK him for a haircut, as if he were a little boy, for the first time. I’ve been talking to him about it for a few weeks. Planting the idea that I hated the $10 cuts he’s been getting from a local barber, and why didn’t he let me take him to my salon, where, yes, they do men’s hair too. I took him because I’d been advised that he shouldn’t be left alone anymore, and the idea of him going to the barber on his own was stressing me out. So we went together.

Monday morning was the perfect time to go. The salon was empty but for us and one stylist - a young woman with purplish hair and a nose ring named Lilith.

I managed to pass one of those “The person I am with has dementia” cards (that you can download from the Alzheimer’s Society) to the girl on the front desk and she passed it along to Lilith.

Lilith was wonderful with him. Slow and gentle - asking for his input and feedback at every step. He loved the experience. And he looks great. Truly. Best haircut he’s had in a long time. When we were finished, he asked if he could come back again next time.

But as I sit here reflecting on the day, my heart, while thankful it all went so well, is also heavy. This is yet another marker that I never anticipated seeing on a journey I never wanted to take.