The Cat

I want to be clear that I have heard a lot of things in thirty years. I have heard confessions, declarations, overshares, and at least three separate instances of someone trying to describe their symptoms to me as though I went to medical school after cosmetology.

But Margaret was the first client who ever brought her cat.

Not a carrier. Not a bag. Just — the cat. In her arms. Like this was a thing people did.

“He gets anxious when I leave,” she explained, settling into the chair as though this required no further discussion.

The cat’s name was Gerald. He was large, orange, and deeply unimpressed with the salon environment. He sat in Margaret’s lap and stared at me the entire appointment with the energy of someone reviewing my performance in real time and finding it adequate at best.

I did Margaret’s color. I did not mention Gerald. What was there to say? He wasn’t bothering anyone. He was just watching.

About forty minutes in, while the color was processing, Margaret looked down at him and said, “He likes you.”

Gerald’s expression did not change in any way that suggested he liked me.

“That’s wonderful,” I said.

“He doesn’t like my husband,” she said. “Hasn’t since the day they met.”

She said it casually. Conversationally. Like a woman who had made her peace with something.

I looked at Gerald. Gerald looked at me.

I’m not saying the cat was right. I’m just saying that by the following spring, Margaret was coming in alone, and she looked — good. Really good. The kind of good that has nothing to do with the haircut.

And absolutely everything to do with divorce. 

Gerald, from what I understand, is thriving.