More Hair

I used the blow dryer this morning.

My chemo curls have become challenging.  It’s not that I would want to return to my shiny baldness, but the easy styling of rubbing a baby-wipe across my scalp and dashing out the door was liberating.  Last December, I had dumped all the gel, mousse, conditioner, spray, brushes, combs, and blow dryer into a grocery bag, and stashed it in the back of my closet.

Now, after a lifetime of stick-straight hair, these curls are an enigma. For the past few weeks, my “styling” has consisted of combing the wet curls flat. Once dry, the top was a wavy pouf and the sides stuck out in Grandpa-Munster-esque, curly gray wings.  Or maybe it’s the elderly Bozo look.

Where were these curls when I chemically cooked my hair into ringlets in the ’80’s?

So this morning, I dived into my closet and hunted down the bag of hair accouterments.  I was Indiana Jones, stumbling out dusty but victorious.  It’s a little ridiculous how much “product” I found.  With all the goop, I could pave a new L.A. freeway and then spray it firmly in place.

And the rebirth began.  My hair is long enough to us a small round brush, and I directed the curls away from my face, which resulted in a puffy pompadour look.  Me and Elvis.  I can’t see the back to fuss with it much, so it’s still a wavy riot back there.

I am just another woman with short hair.

“But the hair on his head began to grow again after it had been shaved.”  Judges 16:22

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