A surgeon voluntarily drops the ‘dr’ from his or her name to remember the days when our operating theatres were nothing more than a hut people visited to have a boil popped and their hair chopped.
Though they confuse patients, the Mr and Ms Surgeon labels are worn with pride – the idea of a scowling surgeon dashing through the hospital, slamming doors on his way to place his finger on a spurting bleeder to save the day inspiring TV watchers the world over.
But when you sit under a sheet with your long-ish locks between the blades of your wife’s scissors – the cutter become the cut – you realise that when you don’t humble yourself, life has a way of thrusting humility on you.
And so you blink at the beautiful woman cutting your hair, and know that all is well with the world.
Originally written on 3 May 2020 at home.
