When I had my check up with the medical oncologist 2 weeks ago, he seemed skeptical that I'd not fall apart when I lost my hair. "Even the toughest nut can have a hard time with it," he said. Dammit man, it's just hair, it'll grow back. I did hold on to it as long as I practically could, but when it got to the point of no disguise, and taking me an extra hour to get ready to go anywhere because it was fiercely falling out, I was done with it. Some people do it themselves, but I didn't. I went to see a stylist who specializes in working with people with hair loss. When she sat me in the chair, it was facing the mirror, and she asked me if I wanted to spin the chair so I didn't see it happening. NO WAY! I ABSOLUTELY WANT TO SEE THIS! I mean, when else in life would I ever shave my head? I MUST SEE this process!
It was methodical, starting on the right side of my head at my temple, and zip zip, one strip gone. As she worked her way from one side to the other, front to back, I have to tell you, it was a relief. I was so glad to get the stringy mess off my head. And I couldn't stop laughing. "I look like Sinead O'Connor! Wait, no, I look like my brother Chip!" Managing my hair as it fell out was the traumatic part - getting rid of it once and for all was liberation. And now, NOW I'm a scarf slut. Yep. I'm not someone who feels a need to own tons of clothes, or shoes, or handbags, or cosmetics. I travel light when I go anywhere. But I've been amassing a scarf collection, that actually started a few years ago. They don't take up much space. They're versatile. They can totally change an outfit. I've worn them around my neck, shoulders, or as a wrap on the beach. Now I've moved into the hard core, wearing them on my head.
All of it reminded me, at 2am one night when I was wide awake from steroids given with chemo that day, of the first scarf I ever got that wasn't for winter's bone cold. It was from a patient 9 years ago, and to this day, I've never worn it. (That's gonna change real soon.) The patient was a sweet lady from Kenya, who had come here to visit with her daughter over the holidays, and suffered a massive stroke just before she was due to go home. I met her at the 4 month mark, after her hospitalization, rehab stay, and home care. She was still in a wheelchair, profoundly weak on one side of her body, and her limited English was made even harder because it was difficult for her to form her words. But she looked amazing every time she came to therapy. She was a scarf person, probably the Original Scarf Slut. I was always fascinated with the colors and designs of what she wore on her head. With our own made-up-on-the-fly sign language, she knew I loved her head gear. I worked with her 3 times a week for 8 weeks, and on the last day, she gifted me that scarf of hers that was my favorite. I've kept it all these years because every time I come across it, I remember how hard she worked in physical therapy to get out of that wheelchair. She lived in a rural village where a wheelchair wasn't practical, and she desperately wanted to return home. By the time our time was done, she was walking with a quad cane, slowly, but solidly, ready to go. There must be some leftover powers in the scarf she wore that is now mine.
And my Mother, she is (unknowingly) enabling the Slutdom. I came home from work one day last week to find she'd sent me a little package - 3 beautiful, soft, flowing, silky scarves. "The one with the butterflies is from Gramma Foley." (Gramma Foley LOVED butterflies, had them in all forms, and we always remember her when we see them.) What my Mother didn't know is that I had made a stop on the way home that day, to pick out some - you guessed it - SCARVES. And one of them that spoke to me was printed with butterflies, and it was my favorite color. Gramma was indeed there, so I took her home with me. So to then find the scarves from my Mother less than an hour later....one with butterflies....hard to describe how amazing it was. Gramma was a word girl, like me. They tell me I get it from her. And the symbolism of butterflies as the beauty on the other side of a metamorphic phase is both powerful and comforting. It felt like she was trying to tell me something. Assurance that all will be well.
Gramma would never ever lie to me.
It was methodical, starting on the right side of my head at my temple, and zip zip, one strip gone. As she worked her way from one side to the other, front to back, I have to tell you, it was a relief. I was so glad to get the stringy mess off my head. And I couldn't stop laughing. "I look like Sinead O'Connor! Wait, no, I look like my brother Chip!" Managing my hair as it fell out was the traumatic part - getting rid of it once and for all was liberation. And now, NOW I'm a scarf slut. Yep. I'm not someone who feels a need to own tons of clothes, or shoes, or handbags, or cosmetics. I travel light when I go anywhere. But I've been amassing a scarf collection, that actually started a few years ago. They don't take up much space. They're versatile. They can totally change an outfit. I've worn them around my neck, shoulders, or as a wrap on the beach. Now I've moved into the hard core, wearing them on my head.
All of it reminded me, at 2am one night when I was wide awake from steroids given with chemo that day, of the first scarf I ever got that wasn't for winter's bone cold. It was from a patient 9 years ago, and to this day, I've never worn it. (That's gonna change real soon.) The patient was a sweet lady from Kenya, who had come here to visit with her daughter over the holidays, and suffered a massive stroke just before she was due to go home. I met her at the 4 month mark, after her hospitalization, rehab stay, and home care. She was still in a wheelchair, profoundly weak on one side of her body, and her limited English was made even harder because it was difficult for her to form her words. But she looked amazing every time she came to therapy. She was a scarf person, probably the Original Scarf Slut. I was always fascinated with the colors and designs of what she wore on her head. With our own made-up-on-the-fly sign language, she knew I loved her head gear. I worked with her 3 times a week for 8 weeks, and on the last day, she gifted me that scarf of hers that was my favorite. I've kept it all these years because every time I come across it, I remember how hard she worked in physical therapy to get out of that wheelchair. She lived in a rural village where a wheelchair wasn't practical, and she desperately wanted to return home. By the time our time was done, she was walking with a quad cane, slowly, but solidly, ready to go. There must be some leftover powers in the scarf she wore that is now mine.
And my Mother, she is (unknowingly) enabling the Slutdom. I came home from work one day last week to find she'd sent me a little package - 3 beautiful, soft, flowing, silky scarves. "The one with the butterflies is from Gramma Foley." (Gramma Foley LOVED butterflies, had them in all forms, and we always remember her when we see them.) What my Mother didn't know is that I had made a stop on the way home that day, to pick out some - you guessed it - SCARVES. And one of them that spoke to me was printed with butterflies, and it was my favorite color. Gramma was indeed there, so I took her home with me. So to then find the scarves from my Mother less than an hour later....one with butterflies....hard to describe how amazing it was. Gramma was a word girl, like me. They tell me I get it from her. And the symbolism of butterflies as the beauty on the other side of a metamorphic phase is both powerful and comforting. It felt like she was trying to tell me something. Assurance that all will be well.
Gramma would never ever lie to me.
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