So they tell me I’m going to lose my hair. It’s the least of my worries about chemo – considering I could also lose my hearing, my digestive health and my sense of touch… But, as I get closer to that possibility, I’m really cherishing my time with hair (as well as hearing, touch, and … digestion). As a matter of fact, I’ve grown accustomed to having hair. I mean, it’s something I have in common with all the other mammals. Not saying I will suddenly join the reptiles when I sport my Teli Savalas, but hair is something we’re used to seeing.
And I’ve been told that it will probably grow back a different color. Unlikely to be naturally purple, but it could come back grey and immediately advance me a decade. So I have some trepidation around the whole thing. It doesn’t help that it’s in the 30s with freezing rain outside.
Will I be bald and proud? Will I do the wig thing, or the scarf thing?
Enter Stuart and Antonio. Two of my dearest friends from way back. They know me well. We have danced crazy dances together in Spain. And New York. And Israel. And the living room. We’ve tried on an accent or two together and dressed the part. They knew just what I needed.
A box of WIGS! A BIG BOX of wigs. A wig for any occasion. Do I feel like cake? How ’bout a little Marie Antoinette? Am I feeling jolly? How ’bout Santa Claus? Am I feeling as funny as a clown? Or confused like “80’s dude wig”? Would I like my long hair back, but without the curl? Or am I feeling sly, like the Russian spy girl bob? Don’t worry, there is a feather boa to complete any look. Feather boa, you complete me!
A couple of weeks ago I lead a storytelling workshop for 50 leaders of a multi-billion dollar company. I had hair. Now, I see all the possibilities I have to reinvent myself. For the next workshop I’ll keep them on edge as a Russian spy. Tomorrow I start Round 3 of chemo and I may just show up as a blond. I’m sitting in a coffee shop and The Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive” is playing. Yes. I will definitely be a blond with bangs tomorrow.
Who will you be?