My scalp was painful, covered in tiny bumps, resulting from an inflammation of the hair follicles. I had been warned that my weakened immune system would have a hard time fighting the simplest of attacks. This, along with the mouth sores which followed, was proof of that. I had an appointment with my doctor and a few necessary errands to run, but faced the dilemma of how to appropriately cover my tender bald head since wearing a wig was out of the question. I experimented with ball caps and straw hats before ultimately deciding on a haphazardly tied scarf. Truth be told, I had to watch a You Tube video twice to avoid looking like a Russian peasant woman, and in the end, I wasn’t any more sat
It was my first outing while wearing a wig, born out of necessity as much as vanity. I was leaving a trail of hair wherever I went, and the cap, although uncomfortable, contained it. Just a few years earlier, I might not have been able to imagine such a thing. But now, for the second time, I was about to be bald, the tell tale indicator of my status as a cancer patient. Like before, I would conceal it, especially while out in public. Most weeks, my dance card is filled with medical appointments, and this one was with a new primary care physician. I had high hopes for the beginning of a beautiful relationship. At the risk of sounding obvious, a good doctor can make a difference between life
Life can be difficult. Even on days when you open your arms wide to embrace the day, filled with hope and optimism, the world manages to deliver a bit of reality, slapping you up the side of the head with a truth that shakes you to the very core of your being. Planes fall out of the sky, the earth quakes in destruction, people rob and kill. We hurl hate upon each other because of different points of view. There is disappointment, grief, sadness and pain. It is hard to be a citizen of this world without pondering the “what ifs,” especially as trouble comes to knock on your door. There is no doubt that life is going to deliver its share of tough times. And yet, none of us can happily reside in
I was born into a neapolitan family, like the ice cream, not the folks from Naples. My father was a redhead; my mom was a brunette; I am a blonde. What can I say? Genetics can be a real crapshoot. And yes, I have endured more than my share of dumb blonde jokes over the years. Usually, I roll my eyes and smile. I was amazed when my hair began to grow back dark following my first bout with cancer. Why not? Everything else about my life had been altered by this disease. But eventually, a few blonde hairs began to emerge, and with the help of Lady Clairol, I had a few lighter highlights to break up the mousy brown. My new hair was thick and curly, far different from the baby fine straight locks
