The bald and the beautiful

Right on schedule, my hair began to fall out today, two weeks after my first chemo injection. I gave it a tug just for fun and a small hunk pulled out; then I washed it and combed it wet, and a fair amount came out on the comb. I couldn't see having to pick up long strands everywhere in the house and down the drains. So I went to a local hair salon and had it shaved off, down to about a half-inch, as you can see in the photo along the right. My friend Matt pushed me in the wheelchair, and the hairstylist, who's probably around my age or older, thought Matt was my son. Matt is five months my senior. Sigh. I think constant pain does a number on your face! And Matt is pretty well preserved.

I had hair almost this short in the '80s (my nickname was Cynth Vicious), but I could pull it off when I still had my youthful cheekbones. I now look a lot like my dad in his 1960s brush-cut phase. Maybe I should get a fedora... The problem is that I look terrible in headgear of any kind. I have purchased two chemo scarves, one a dark brown sort of turban and the other a lovely red silk number. But neither is particularly flattering. I'm not sure now that I want to spend money on a wig -- my insurance covers only $100, and I think they're pretty costly.

Please, please, let me hold on to my eyebrows. I will trade my pubic hair for those any day!