In fact, I was so angry I was in tears.
I screamed at myself the entire half-hour drive home and then when I got home, I continued to scream at myself in the mirror. I considered locking myself in the house and never coming out again but knew that wasn't reasonable. I was supposed to go to my happy place with the Evil Red Genius but at that point I didn't want anyone to see me. I didn't even want to see me. Prowler, God bless him, still loved me and that helped. If he had shunned me I don't know what I would have done.
I, thankfully, had enough bobby pins to make myself look acceptable and off I went, in a surly mood, to pick up my friend and head to my happy place. No one was the wiser and that's exactly how I wanted it to stay.Nothing seemed to go right that day. I was doomed. The wine that Chef Mike picked out for me (and he has never picked out one I didn't love) didn't make me happy. In fact, he offered to buy it if I didn't like it and usually when I receive that offer, I know it's going to be stupendous. Nope, I took him up on his offer and gave it back and decided on one that we had before and knew we liked. It was nice that the wine had a "V" on the label. At least the wine wasn't disappointed in me. Yet, it still didn't really make me feel any better. Mike even toasted the comes-with-your-meal bread and brought out a made-for-me dipping oil, and while it was delicious, it was going to take a lot more than food and wine to get me out of this funk. (Ya never thought you'd hear me say that, did ya?)
A few hours at my happy place was nice but when I returned home reality set in. I don't care what other people think. I stopped caring about that a long time ago. In middle school, I was treated horribly and it was arguably the worst time of my childhood. Kids are mean and the way things are nowadays they are even meaner. No amount of bobby pins and hairspray would take away the cruel reality I was now facing though. The next day I invested in a lot of both and decided I was going to suck it up and make the best of it - or at least just not let anyone see me in this state.
I knew eventually, this would end though. I wouldn't be able to hide forever. About a week after the tragedy occurred, I decided to embrace my mishap. I'm not sure what made me feel this way but that Friday I showed up to work without a single bobby pin on my head. I took a deep breath, made sure I wore something that would possibly accent the new-do (and more importantly distract from it) and with my head held high, I owned this monstrosity!
People were shocked. In fact, some people didn't even recognize me. But to my surprise, people actually liked it. Were they smoking crack, I wondered? Possibly, but hopefully not while on the clock. Were they just being nice? No, these people are brutal. They don't care about anyone's feelings. They will tell it like it is. Did it make me feel better? A little. Honestly, it was nice to hear but in all actuality, it didn't matter. I wasn't happy with it and THAT is what mattered. My self-esteem had been crushed. My opinion of myself had been demoralized. I knew in time it would get better but I knew it would take a lot of time before that would happen.
That night, Red and I stopped by my happy place to do the weekend wine tasting and pick up to-go food. This was going to take courage. It was the first time I had walked in there looking this way. It was a Friday night so the potential for "everyone" I know to be there was high and I really couldn't fathom getting crushed at the one place that accepts me no matter what. I was nervous yet something other than stupid bangs were going to have to keep me from being at the place that I love most! I may not be happy but I'm going to own this, I thought! No one is going to know that I'm feeling extremely defeated. I planned this! I did this on purpose! Yeah, that's it. Embrace it!! After a little wine, I wouldn't care anyway, right? (ok, it would take a lot of wine and that didn't happen.)
Arthur was floored and in a good way. He was almost blushing and said he absolutely loved it. I had been told earlier I was chic and even sultry. Tara, who has no filter at all (which is something I love about her), couldn't understand why I wasn't over-the-moon happy with the way I looked. I swear I thought Ashton Kutcher was around the corner with television cameras. It was a matter of time before Chef Mike would come out of the kitchen exclaiming that I had been punked. But it didn't happen.... They were sincere and it was truly heart-warming. Yet, it still didn't make everything ok.
I still went home and stuck my tongue out at myself in the mirror.
As another week went by, I still clung tight to my bobby pins and only went without them two times. One time was a Board meeting day and I knew I'd have to endure some comments but I didn't think that it would be the exciting topic of conversation that it turned out to be. However, the comments were overwhelmingly positive and often from unexpected individuals. Again, I wore an outfit that would hopefully distract and I received comments in that regard as well (which I tended to believe more). Still, I went home and pulled my hair back in a knot, screaming again because it wouldn't all go back in the ponytail holder anymore. Deep sigh. It was going to be a long couple of months or even close to a year before this would be anywhere near fixable.
Then it happened.......
Divine intervention slapped me across the face.
My dad is losing his hair. Yeah, he's a man and who doesn't love a smooth, sexy bald head on a man? Men can get away with not having hair, right? Of course they can. But when you have prostate cancer that has metastasized to the bone and you're going through chemo and THAT is why you're losing your hair, it puts a whole different spin on things. Reality smacks you in the face. Even if you're feeling better. Even if the treatment is working (praise God!) and your side effects aren't as bad as they could be (although you sure do feel like complete hell most of the time), looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing your hair falling out is a harsh reality check. It is a blatant and constant reminder that you are sick and you have cancer.
What the hell am I complaining about?
It's just hair.
It will grow back.
Get over yourself, girl!
If Dad can handle losing his hair as he battles cancer, the absolute least I can do is accept screwing up mine.
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