what cannot be said

by Susan Weber

One of the complaints at a recent statehouse protest was that barbershops and hair salons were closed. Personal grooming is important to our self-esteem, adding insult to sundry inconveniences. This would sound frivolous to someone like Mrs. Khaton in Bangladesh, were she aware of our concerns. Since her job in a garment factory vanished, she struggles to feed her kids a daily meal of roti and potatoes.

I’ve had hair discussions with numerous friends by now; sooner or later the video chat comes down to how to make the best of things. We trade tips on bang trims and taming the borderline mullet. We’ve seen more men embrace the manly beard, as women, now that hats are off, let gray encroach on the tinted hairline. How to spruce up a partner who still goes in to work? Implements. YouTubes. Murmured plans to shave our heads while doubting we would go that far. Scissors in hand I call my sister for courage to tackle the lawless mop. “Oops, almost poked an eye out!” Nervous laughter, reassuring words.

A headline warns that Sympathy Cards Are Running Out. The story features a bestselling card with a sculpted angel slumped across a tombstone—forehead couched in the crook of an arm, hair swept up in a simple bun. The other arm hangs out over the recently dismounted monument—limp, abandoned, vulnerable. Beneath all this a Sappho quote. “What cannot be said, will be wept.”

The ancient Greek poet knew the limits of her words. Israelites knew their limits too, putting on sackcloth when somebody died. The itch of woven goat hair said the wearer’s world was unreconcilably altered. What cannot be spoken will be told somehow.

When I search for the weeping angel online, I find it everywhere. The one in Prairie Lea Cemetery, Texas, gives me pause. This angel’s hair falling loose over shoulders and arms evokes a rare solitude, intimate as poem. I’m not even tempted to look away. Why am I suddenly brave?

It’s a problem, isn’t it, watching human anguish by remote control? I’ve ignored the world’s heartbreak before—how can we not, and live? But with defenses down, routines abolished, comfort interrupted, denial’s not the friend it used to be. Anguish hypothetical is draining and complaint only makes us feel small. Which brings us back to grooming it would seem.

Can we hold our ravaged splendor in a softer light? See dishevelment as ritual, a silent, salient keening for the world we’ve lost. True, my lousy haircut won’t bring a soul back from the dead, or feed Mrs. Khaton’s children. But let me sit bedraggled and deranged. Emotions, let them unravel, fall around the shoulders, be. Let them be of use to sorrow.

Photo by AmyTheSpiritSeeker CC BY-SA 3.0