Psychologists have worked hard to prove sadness is pathological. They have redefined the black mood and demonized melancholy. They have packaged pessimism as depression and intensity as disorder.

The attempt to rid the world of sadness is totalitarian in nature. There is no happiness, no humanity even, without sorrow and despair.

Every human being finds a satisfactory answer to the riddle of life, or withers inside. In a world that has turned its back on truth and meaning, this answer is missing. For many, sadness is health. Sadness is resistance. Sadness is the subconscious refusal to surrender.

To take this sadness away by classifying it as disease is to remove the last traces of humanity. A machine never aches. A stone never weeps. The war against sadness calls for its counterpart: the war for sadness, the war for pain, the war for ten million tears, felt one by one.

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In an interview in the New York Times today, the photographer Lillian Bassman makes an interesting, politically-incorrect admission. When Bassman was young and newly married, she did not want children. Her husband did. So Bassman went to a psychotherapist. Within six weeks, her desire for children was awakened. She had a son and daughter.

An unmarried woman who chooses another life is not necessarily unhealthy if she does not want children. But, a married woman who lacks all interest in reproducing is psychologically abnormal. Unfortunately, in our world, this lack of interest is considered perfectly healthy, an assumption that keeps women from seeking help. Maternal desire is not always innate – and there is nothing shameful about it not being innate. But, it can be acquired.

Bassman became famous for her artsy erotic images of women in lingerie ads. Gina Bellafonte, the reporter, says Bassman was “advantaged” in her work with women because they felt more comfortable with a female photographer.

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    If human beings had no need for variety - and for alternating stillness and activity -  there would be no need for domesticity. We could live like horses in penned pastures. Day after day, the same grass, the same sky. We could live like well-oiled furnaces, humming and churning without skipping notes. We could be as static as rocks, as un-various as concrete, as free from melancholy and joy as the sand on the beach. As soon as he gets over the shock of his arrival, an infant looks about him. He looks about and wants more. More of something. He will never be satisfied with the same thing over and over. Even his moments of stillness contain the search for variety. Our domestic lives would be formulaic and simple if we were formulaic and simple. The housewife would have nothing to do. She too could join the mechanical flow.

    This drawing by the artist Kidist Paulos Asrat is a beautiful rendering of a bird who sings of love all summer long. He does not mourn. He hopes. He does not cry. He woos.  

  How did we reach the point where we both sanction suicide among the old and yet go to extraordinary lengths to extend their lives? We got here by losing sight of what life is. Roughly 60,000 Americans in their eighties now have open-heart surgery every year, according to a recent study, as reported in yesterday's Philadelphia Inquirer. And, more than a thousand in their nineties do. Those surgeries cost Medicare $40,000 to $60,000 each. Medicare will be bankrupt in seven years. And, the number of people in their eighties and nineties is rapidly increasing. Americans appear to believe death is okay if you're dying of hopelessness and despair. Death isn't okay if you're dying from ordinary physical decline.

No advanced civilization has been sustained without barbers. The more the better. There are few things more beautiful or emblematic of strength and order than a man’s neck, freshly-shaven. Some societies have found long hair in men attractive and masculine. These societies have disappeared, as well they should have.

The barber closest to where I live is a nice, but messy person. He sweeps all the day’s hair into a hole in his floor. The hair rains down into the basement, where he leaves it accumulating in a massive hill of human locks. I once took my son down to the basement so that he could use the restroom. We both almost fainted in disgust. The hill was illuminated with the ghostly light shining from the hole above.

For this reason, and out of thrift, I have long been my husband’s barber. I have cut his hair for about fifteen years. I have a few rules. One, I don’t talk sports. Most men enjoy mulling over the latest scores while getting their heads shorn. Tough luck.

I also reserve the right to break out in laughter. There’s a reason why there are barbers. It does take some skill and training. Worse comes to worse, my husband can wear a baseball cap for a few days. Don’t misunderstand me. I take the job seriously. What woman wants her husband to appear with unintentional corn rows?

“Thanks,” my husband said recently after a hair cut. “It needs to be done.” He was quoting Richard Nixon. In his famous conversaton with John Dean, Nixon spoke of the need to use the FBI and IRS against political enemies.

“Oh, what an exciting prospect,” said Dean.

“Thanks,” said Nixon.  “It needs to be done.”

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