No … wait! … wrong reality!
Today, the unmasking, if you consider a head of hair a disguise, which I do,
now that I’ve seen me without it.
It was reverse déjà vu all
over again after the deep buzzcut, because I haven’t looked at this frozen mug
or felt this fuzz since Parris Island boot camp. The only difference this time is the cancer, and no footlocker pushups. Otherwise the pain was/is about the same. Hoorah. Semper Fi.
If anyone would care to
offer a verdict, a commentary, an insult, a dirty joke, or any other evaluation
of my freshly clipped dome, please do. Diane’s comment: “I like it!” Part of
that might be that she’ll no longer find my hair in the supper stir-fry, but I do
believe her.
Isn’t there an historical superstition about head-rubbing that is applicable here? Ah! My crackerjack columnist research shows that the jury’s split on this one. I’m going with the host of photos I found of George W. Bush publicly polishing the pates of total strangers. He was very nearly obsessive about it. Hmm … okay … good enough for Dubya, good enough for rubya! (See what I did there?)
So, before the day was out,
I did press a few nurses to give me their opinions on my new headtopper cropper.
The most popular answer: “It makes you look so much younger!”
Uh-huh. Bless them for
the redirection, but I’ve been a nurse for a long time, and nurses will say things like that after you’ve
had a successful heart surgery or bowel movement. We’ll call it praising with a
faint damnation. Still, it helped to recharge my day and give me a break beyond
these nagging short circuits everywhere else in and on this body.
Oh, and one last woohoo! I’ve
just discovered that the cueballs among us have an annual Bald Is Beautiful! convention
in Morehead City, North Carolina. There are even contests and awards for
categories like “Sexiest Bald Head.”
Here comes Diane: “You’re a
shoe-in for that one.”
Okay, now I’ve gone to the
head of our class. Meet you there.
More as we go, El
