My hair is growing in baby-soft. It is surprisingly dark, except the aging highlights around the front and sideburns. The dark color is about the same color as my mom and sister's hair before they began to show aging highlights, and then discovered color in a bottle. Growing up, my hair color was very similar to Riley's hair, but with a touch more red. It is so short that it can only be measured in millimeters. My scalp is still quite visible. My friend and hairstylist, Clean Machine, called to see if I am ready to color my gray. She knows me so well. Sadly, is is too short to color. If she colored it now, my scalp would also become colored, making me look like a Jersey cow, or maybe a giraffe. Giraffe sounds better.
A couple of days ago, a woman came up to me in a store and told me that she liked my haircut. I chuckled and responded that this was a "cancer cut; courtesy of chemotherapy." She said, "I just saw another woman with the same hair style, and she explained that her boyfriend cut is with shears." She went on to tell me how great my hair looks, and that I should keep it short. Thank you very much! And then, she asked me if I wore a wig, and I said no. She continued to tell me all about her friend that went through chemotherapy and did not wear a wig, but only hats and scarves. I was never uncomfortable with her questions or rambling on, and she didn't even flinch when I said it was a "cancer cut." It was all quite comical. My guess is that this woman was not a native New Englander...not that there is anything wrong with it!
Last week I had my first mammogram since the surgery. A mammogram goes by quickly when they only take pictures of one breast - the old, non-reconstructed one. The most interesting part of this appointment was the conversation in the second waiting room. (When you go for a mammogram, you check in at the desk as usual for any other doctor's appointment. A nurse calls you in to a mini-locker room to change into a pink "johnny", aka hospital gown, and then you sit and wait in the second, mini-waiting room that holds about 10 chairs.) A woman without a pink gown was waiting in the room while her 92 year old mother ,who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer, was having an ultrasound. She had just seen Dr. T. Best, my surgeon, the day before. She said that her 92 old mother is not going to endure surgery, chemotherapy, nor radiation; she is only going to take oral medicine. Even though her mom looked strong, sharp and stylish, I think that at 92, surgery and treatments would kill her before the cancer. Prayer out to this strong old gal! We were sharing our great experiences with Dr. T. Best, and how we felt we were in the best hands in the business, when a woman at the other end of the room moved closer to us and said, "I think I need to hear this conversation." She was recently told that she has something suspicious that could be breast cancer. She had that glazed look in her eye, the one that I still remember...it's the what in the world do I do next look. She wrote down Dr. T. Best's name. Hopefully she won't need her. Without effort or intention, I somehow managed to make this scared woman laugh, which she unnecessarily thanked me for when she was leaving. Prayer out to this scared woman too. ("Prayer out" is a prayerful shout out. Yep, I just made that up.)
Whacky thought for the day...
This is the only time in my life, other than at birth, when my dad, and my brothers too, have more hair on their heads than me!
Nov 24 - Happy Birthday Brittany!