Hair, the Sequel

It’s been almost four months since the last of the rat poison/bleach/plutonium dripped into my chest’s auxiliary intake manifold (the port).  I have hair.  I have eyebrows.  I have eyelashes.

As you can see, I’m sporting a very short and sassy ‘do.  It’s salt-and-pepper gray, and since I hadn’t actually seen my own hair color in more than fifteen years, it’s impossible to tell if that’s the before-breast-cancer color.  It probably is.  I could complain that chemo trashed my natural caramel, buttery blonde color, but would you believe me?  Nah.

Here’s my shameful secret...I love it.  It’s incredibly easy to take care of.  I use purple shampoo to bring out the silver, a dab of mousse so it’ll bend to the right a little, smooth it with my husby’s black comb, and voila…the job is done.  It’s puppy-soft, light, and cool.  I think I look adorable.  And isn’t it how we feel about how we look that really matters?

Jerry and I were shopping yesterday, and a clerk stopped me.  “That short haircut really works for you.  You look great,” she said.  As though I did this to myself on purpose.

My heart sang all afternoon.

“Behold, you are beautiful, my love, behold, you are beautiful! Your eyes are doves behind your veil. Your hair is like a flock of goats leaping down the slopes of Gilead.”               Song of Solomon 4:1