A few days ago, my grandparents came to my house for the first time since late February. They wore their masks, brought their own Purell, and sat outside, even though it was sweltering. My grandfather was exasperated. He told my mother to cut his hair, as it was completely overgrown and wild with waves that he himself had never known. My mom grabbed a hair clipper and got to work, although never having cut hair before. There was such a sadness in the air, as grey locks flew about. My grandfather, the hardest working person I know, who never sat still, was sitting outside, heavy, hoping this haircut would somehow lessen his burden. My grandparents, the elderly, our most vulnerable, face each day fighting an invisible and deadly threat.