Can the hairdresser do my colour yet? How corona-recovery looks

The Sightgeist, by Glen Le Lievre.

Everyone is writing a timeline to recovery. Some even go back to 1919 to plot what comes next and, while I’m a fan of Charlie Chaplin, the Charleston and sequined mini-dresses, I think we can do better.

In two weeks, you will scrape those pyjamas off your body and swear that from today you will wear proper pants. Good luck zipping up the pants you last wore in January.

In three weeks, leaders will warn that unless restrictions are lifted NOW, we will never get back to normal.

In 3½ weeks, kids will decide they’ve had enough quality time with parents to last them until their 21st birthday.

In four weeks, no woman over the age of 40 will appear in public without a headscarf. And it will have nothing to do with hygiene.

In five weeks, everyone will have discovered the Zoom app that makes you look younger but the most popular tweak will be the Mr Potato Head. For some, the difference isn’t great.

In the same week, community leaders will demand a return of manufacturing to Australia. A poll shows most Australians agree — until they get to the cashier.

The Queen’s Birthday honours list will feature nurses, hospital porters, supermarket cashiers, food delivery cyclists and the doctors who were on duty when Boris visited.

In seven weeks, leaders warn that a new normal is developing. People have slowed down, they’re walking everywhere, cooking at home, raising children themselves. This cannot continue, leaders say.

In eight weeks, there will be a shortage of firewood. Canny people will realise there is finally a use for the two-ply in the spare bedroom.

In the same week, travel restrictions will be lifted. You will be able to go to the next suburb. People will be excited but they can’t wait until they can travel to Wagga Wagga or Wangaratta.

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In nine weeks, leaders will say we must get back to the normalcy where many workers made bosses rich and people elected politicians who didn’t do much except hand out grants to mates. People said: “Really, was that the old normal?”

In 10 weeks, the first self-published cake book will appear. A few days later, three million other recipe books will be printed. None will sell and that may be because of the titles — A Plague of Pastries, Sweet Retreat and Help, My Five-Year-Old Thinks She’s Nigella.

The same week, a new leader emerges and says we must get back to normal where workers own the factory, wages are split equally and at break time everyone sings The Internationale. People say, gee, I forgot it used to be like that.

In 12 weeks, grandma will get to see the kids again. And, when she says, “my, how you’ve grown”, she won’t be exaggerating. By spring, ladies who lunch will be tearing their hair out. “Who are we, if we don’t lunch?” they’ll say at the Tuesday Zoom meeting. “How long can we wear these scarfs? I’d literally tear my hair out except I have no nails.”

By the end of the year, we’ll start planning for a new normal. Wagga Wagga is booked. We’ll go to the wardrobe and wonder, what did I wear to work last year? And, for the first time, the answer really will be, nothing. We will — finally — run out of cardamom.

A leader will give a Christmas address and declare that everything is about to return to normal — women will wear scarfs; children will play in streets and the zoo will open for those who want to see the Tyrannosaurus rex baby. People will say, can’t wait to see the dinosaurs again.

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