Ever since I learned of my treatment options I've attempted to brazenly and casually mask any insecurities I have about losing my hair. Even as I write this, I feel the need to select my words so carefully as to sound poetic and insightful and NOT UNGRATEFUL that I'm getting better. I'm really struggling to admit how preoccupied I am by this inevitable disappearance. It shouldn't be a big deal. It shouldn't. I made it clear that I planned to shave my head as soon as the shedding got excessive. Or as long as I made it past various events, then I'd do it. Or my hair didn't look "so" thin (a constantly relative term). Excuses, excuses.
I've had almost three months to watch the strand by strand dispersal of my hair. But yesterday I found myself putting down a deposit. A deposit to a guy named Jerome who swears you'll never see anyone wearing his hairpieces. At least that's their motto.
I think my discomfort lies in that a bald head or fake hair automatically seems to tattoo "Cancer Patient" across my forehead. Enter fear, sympathy, pity. Bleh. I'm really trying to articulate this in a tactful way, but maybe there isn't. Whine.
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