Breaking And Entering And Committing

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was having my hair done when my townhouse was broken into. And trust me, “I was touching up my highlights” isn’t the answer you want to give when an officer asks where you’ve been because, hey, did you notice the three police cars in your driveway? And that all the lights in your house are on? What about your front door being wide open? You guessed it—all your most important material belongings in the world have been swiped.

On top of the fear I immediately felt, I was embarrassed to admit that while my home was getting ransacked, I was being coiffed and primped, coddled and complimented by my hairstylist whose job was 90 percent cutting my hair and 10 percent maintaining my ego. (When you’re a 30-something, single girl in Dallas, searching for a man who likes his women au naturel—with crow’s feet and without silicone—that 10 percent of an ego boost is not just nice, but necessary.)

If only I had a better answer for the officer—that I was helping at a soup kitchen or visiting my grandmother. I mumbled that I had been getting my hair cut and then wished I’d brought my hairdresser along with me. Smile at the officer, he would have encouraged me. Show him you’re worth a million bucks, even if you feel five cents short of a nickel.

At first all I could think of was how many bucks it would take to replace the items that had been stolen. It was the first time I’d been robbed; I didn’t know I should be wondering what else I’d find missing after the material items had been categorized, the police report finished.

If these punk neighborhood kids knew that the thing I prided myself on most was the ability to live independently and alone, would they have stomped all over that by kicking in my door to get their hands on my computer?

Of course they would have, I reminded myself for weeks as I lay in bed at night, watching the clock and listening for any hint of suspicious noises. “It’s not personal,” the fingerprint duster said when she came in the noisy wake of the officers’ departure. “Just remember that, sweetheart.” And then on her way out the door, she squeezed my arm. She likely knew how hard it is to convince yourself that a crime committed against you can actually have nothing to do with you.