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