I’m three weeks into my chemo treatments. Actually people just call them “treatments.” Not to be confused with another word I hear quite often in L.A.– “Procedures.” As in… “I’m just going in for a little procedure.” These I am told require very little downtime, and will take ten years off your tush, mugshot, accordion neck, librarian arms, and even tighten a twat, if so inclined. (As you might guess, a tight twat is the least of my worries.) Good Lord, I’m not looking for a plastic surgeon with steady hands…I’m scouring the internet for scarves.
Every day there is a new and exciting symptom. For instance, this morning my head hurt. REALLY HURT. Not a migraine or Smirnoff flu, but each individual bleach-fried strand of hair was staging an uprising. An ambush of sorts. Then I grabbed my brush and a large clump migrated to the boar bristles. This began a massive tug-of-war with my follicles. It’s as if they were shouting at me… “Yeah? Well, what are you going to do about it?”
My hair has a valid point. I’ve got no bargaining power. I look like something Atticus Finch might put down if I’d limped into Maycomb, Alabama with this mangy doo. Oh sure, it will grow back. Eventually I’ll have grey-brown strands with a possible bounce and hints of brass…which given the Chia Pet alternative is rather exhilarating to contemplate.
Last week, in a pre-emptive strike, I cut my hair short. My husband offered to use his pruning shears and give it a good whack, but when he mentioned Dorothy Hamill’s duck tail in the same sentence, I speed dialed my stylist. (Doesn’t that sound swank!)
Now those shortened locks are aching like a mofo so I drove to Target and bought an electric shaver. There was a man in the razor section sporting a ZZ TOP beard. Not knowing which model would give me the closest shave, I asked this unlikely suspect. Grimacing, he pointed at the one with color coded blades and scurried away.
I’ll be the first to admit it…I used to be a slave to my beauty products. The pinnacle point happened sometime around my fortieth birthday. I mocked Father Time by staying out late, eating crappy food, drinking too much, and never hydrating. Water was something I gave the lawn. (I swear I could almost hear those burnt blades rejoicing!) Now who’s laughing?
No doubt about it…the hysterectomy launched me into menopause like a 57-year-old pregnant pole-vaulter…and then came cancer, which pretty much took my youth and curb stomped it. Do I miss those rebellious days? HELL NO!
It seems we work our entire lives to accumulate properties and possessions, but when we can finally sit back and enjoy them, there is always something to oversee, tend to, or mend. Before diagnosed, I bought nice makeup, shampoo, conditioner, razors that glided instead of nicked, and mascara vowing to make lashes long and luscious. Now my jowls sag and I’m balding…but look at the time I save in beauty prep! I’ve already added forty-five minutes to my day. Not to mention, significant cash flow.
I’ve discovered many accessories for my new cue ball noggin. Here are just a few I’m toying with. Please feel free to comment or give a thumbs up/down as I’m feeling very fashion forward right now. Besides, the more I can keep my sense of humor…the better life seems to be. Thanks for helping me find the ridiculous in losing my hair. After all, it’s not like I got here with a potload of potential! (Can’t believe they spit-matted it down for this shot.)
Spoiler update…Hair gone. Wish I looked more like Sinead O’Connor, but unfortunately…this is it.