Grooming with ADHD

I was diagnosed with ADHD last year, in my mid-forties, which is a strange age to suddenly be given a name for the way your brain has apparently been operating your entire life. ADHD can be easier to miss in girls and women, especially when it doesn’t look like the stereotypical hyperactive version most of us grew up hearing about. Hormonal changes can affect symptoms too, and for some women, things become more noticeable around perimenopause. Learning all of that made being diagnosed at this point in my life make a lot more sense. The diagnosis didn’t change who I was. Mostly, it made me start looking at things I’ve done my entire life and thinking, Oh. Well, that explains a lot.

Especially at work. If you only knew me as a groomer, ADHD might not be the first thing you would guess. I am very organized. My tools have specific places. I take detailed notes on my dogs. I plan my schedule, build routines and am constantly tweaking my systems to make the day run more smoothly. I would love to tell you this annoying level of organization follows me home. It does not. Apparently, my brain considers workplace organization a highly specialized skill that cannot be transferred to other locations. At work, every tool has a designated home. At home, I have piles. The piles have a system. I cannot explain the system, and I would appreciate it if nobody touched the piles. But all that organization at work has a purpose. The more smoothly everything else runs, the more attention I have for the dog in front of me.

And my brain really likes dogs.

Grooming gives me a constant stream of things to notice, think about and figure out. Even dogs I’ve groomed for years aren’t exactly the same every time I see them. Their coat changes. Their body changes. They get older. They have good days and weird days. Sometimes they arrive with six weeks of coat growth, and sometimes they arrive looking like they spent those six weeks personally fighting a shrub. I love figuring them out. If something isn’t working, my brain immediately starts looking for another route. Can the dog sit instead? Can I change my position? Would another tool work better? Is something uncomfortable? Do they need a minute? I’m not particularly loyal to Plan A. The dog standing in front of me sets the pace and tells me how to proceed.

My curiosity also explains the truly ridiculous amount of continuing education I’ve done. I am incapable of being casually interested in something. One innocent question about coat growth becomes hair cycles, follicles and skin. A question about why a dog responds differently when I hold them a certain way becomes anatomy, body mechanics, behavior and canine massage. Then I buy three books, sign up for a class and somehow decide I should write a book about it.

This has happened often enough that I should probably recognize the warning signs.

Fortunately, those rabbit holes usually lead right back to my grooming table. I love learning something and then recognizing it in a dog I have my hands on. I want to know why something works, not just how to do it. “That’s how it’s always been done” is practically an invitation for my brain to start investigating. I notice things the same way. My hands move over almost every inch of a dog’s body, usually every six weeks, and I pay attention. A new bump. A change in coat texture. A different way of standing. Tension under my hand. A dog leaning toward me or quietly moving away. I don’t necessarily know why something has changed, and it isn’t my job to diagnose it. But when you groom the same dogs regularly, you learn what is normal for that dog. There is value in simply noticing when something isn’t.

Then there is the hyperfocus.

I can become completely absorbed in a haircut while the entire salon disappears around me because one side of a dog’s face appears to contain approximately four more hairs than the other. The dog does not care. The parent would probably never notice. Unfortunately, I have noticed, so now we’re all involved. Even the chaos of a grooming salon seems to suit my brain. Dryers are running, dogs are barking, people are talking, parents are arriving… When several things are happening at once, I can become strangely calm. There is always something for my hands to do, something for my eyes to notice and something for my brain to solve.

Then I go home.

Suddenly, the same person who coordinated an entire day of appointments, remembered that Peanut has a sensitive left hip and noticed a pea-sized bump under someone’s armpit is staring at a laundry basket like, I simply do not have the energy for this. Sometimes I sit on the couch playing a mindless game on my phone while looking directly at something I should put away.

I see it.

It sees me.

We have reached an understanding.

I understand that contrast better now. I put a lot of myself into grooming, and I do it because I genuinely love the dogs. They give all that attention somewhere meaningful to go. I want to notice. I want to remember what worked for a nervous dog last time. I want to understand why something bothers them. I want to find another way when the first way isn’t working. If a dog struggles with something, I don’t immediately think they’re being difficult. I get curious. Maybe standing that way is uncomfortable. Maybe the dryer is overwhelming. Maybe they don’t understand what I’m asking. Maybe I need to change the position, change the tool, break the groom into smaller pieces or just give them a minute. Or maybe they just really, really hate having their front left foot touched.

Fair enough. Now I have information. Different doesn’t automatically mean difficult, stubborn or badly behaved. Sometimes I just haven’t found the right approach for that dog yet.

I don’t know what kind of groomer I would be if my brain worked differently, and I’m not particularly interested in finding out. My ADHD is wrapped up in too many things I love about the way I groom: my curiosity, attention to detail, love of learning, ability to adapt and instinct to keep looking when the obvious solution isn’t working. Because when it comes to the dogs, I want to notice. I want to remember what worked last time. I want to understand why something isn’t working today. I want to keep learning, adjusting and finding better ways to work with the individual dog standing in front of me. I love the dogs, and they give all that curiosity, focus and intensity somewhere meaningful to go.

So maybe the piles at home can just be piles for a while.

As long as the dogs are happy.

And I’ll get to the laundry eventually.