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I wouldn't say that I've been in denial about moving in three weeks, exactly, but there are a lot of loose ends that I haven't been focusing on because they're not written down in my excruciatingly detailed spreadsheet of Everything Moving-Related Ever. I am conscious that we need to hold something, be it ever so humble, to get our friends together before we go, because even though we never throw parties and I don't like making a fuss about myself it'd still suck to sneak out of town before anybody realized we're gone. (Or, more realistically, for people to only know our moving date when we ask them to help load the truck.) I'm slowly cleaning things out of my office, library carrel, and gym locker, and we're slowly tying up the loose ends of the move (next on the list: confirming from the Outremont police that we can, in fact, take a 22' truck down our street, ugh), but the moving boxes are still sitting untouched in the front hallway.

During the past few weeks, I've been working with an acquaintance of Peter's on parts of her dissertation. "I talked to [her]," Pete reported back the next time he saw her, a few weeks after we began working together. "She really likes you. She's sorry that we're moving. And she says that you have amazing hair. She wants to know if it's a perm."

Now, while said acquaintance never said anything about my hair to my face, that's not an entirely uncommon response. I don't want to sound egotistical, or overstate the virtues of my hair -- it's not really "amazing," and it is inconsistent. But it is short, and the front part is curly, and for whatever reason it's not a combination that you see a whole lot. Consequently, people tend to remember me via my hair; it's an identifying characteristic. And it's something that my hairdresser has taken personal pride in, as she's perfected the cut over the past five years.

Last night I went to get my monthly cut. I relayed the compliment about my hair, and we talked about how perms have changed since their proliferation in middle school. "Now, on you," my stylist explained, "I'd use a pretty wide rod, only process it for around five minutes, and use it to even out the curl around the back. It would look really cute, in case you ever want to try something different." And then it struck me -- even if it wanted to, I could never get a perm with my stylist. This was the last haircut I'd have with her in the foreseeable future. After this haircut, I'd have to find an entirely new place, and find a sympathetic hair-cutting stranger to teach, through trial and error, how to recreate ma coiffure. We parted with hugs and well-wishes, and the thought of not seeing her made me immensely sad. And that, my friends, was the moment when I realized that we are leaving.

With so much going on at once, it's understandable that the full realization would take you by surprise. It will get done... now, the moving in - that will probably take much longer.

If past experience is any guide the moving in will take substantially less time than the packing. Boxes of stuff are an affront unto Katie and must be dealt with.

The realization coming from the hair cut makes sense to me. We are creatures of habit to a large extent and so it is when those entrenched routines are disrupted or broken that something becomes real and important.