Look before you leap

So I've gotten a really short disastrous haircut and the rats have returned. There's a causal connection there somewhere.

Hair first. I was in need of a trim. It was a lovely spring morning, cool, the hint of the warmth to come, flowers ablaze in aching glory, the last day of spring break--a time for leaping. And New Haircutter Guy was in the mood for radical cutting. So, I leapt. He cut. I now look like an old lady with an erratic perm. Liberated by the short cut, my hair is doing what comes naturally: sprouting in odd curly combinations here, sulking in a fit of straights there, sticking out at random points in anarchic conviction throughout. It is not an attractive look. It does not bespeak the playful promise of springtime that New Haircutter Guy dangled in front of me like a chocolate cupcake.

What it evokes, nay, what it uncannily duplicates, is my grandmother the morning that I surprised her with a visit. Turned out it was her cleaning morning. When I sprung upon her, she was on her hands and knees dusting the crevices of an upturned kitchen chair. Usually immaculately coiffed, rouge carefully applied, pearls resting gently on her Marshall Field's blouse, Gram was in a duster, with bare legs and ankle socks, and her hair--her hair looked just like mine right now. She was horrified to see me seeing her crouching in that kitchen. Much like I am horrified to see me seeing me right now.

Much like the rats, actually. I thought we had defeated the rats some months ago, using a combination of poison, rat traps, glue trays, and, I dunno, human resolve, esprit, determination. But no. Putting away some suitcases in the attic late yesterday afternoon, I heard the telltale rustling and the rhythmic tat-tat-tat of little feet. And today, when I went down to the basement to get a packet of veggie burgers, I was stopped short by the sight of a rat, stuck in glue, right in front of the freezer.

It's all our neighbor's fault. He chopped down an ailing tree that, it turns out, housed an entire city of rats. But these rats do not act like poor refugees. No, they are rodent Republicans. They have Made It and moved to the suburbs. Freed from the packed confines of urban tree living, they embrace the wide open spaces of our human houses with great gusto. I keep expecting to find rat-sized Weber grills and built-in swimming pools, rat-marketed cul-de-sacs with names like Little Gnawing, rat versions of the tennis club. Big and sleek and well-fed, these are rats with really good health insurance plans. They Have Arrived. And they do not intend to leave.

So, I'm an old lady with crazy hair and rats. I always knew it would come to this.