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.