One of the things I don't want to be is afraid.
When I was in high school, a friend's Mom told me that there was only one way through difficult things in life - straight through the middle of them.
I jumped into the shower first thing. When I got out, Jim, Miles and Ian were laying in bed and Jim was telling stories. All casual while dressing, I asked Miles if he wanted to hear something silly. He did. So, I told him about the silly side effect of the medicine I'm taking. "It makes my hair fall out." I said I didn't want it to fall out, so I was just going to cut it short. Like Ian's, short.
Miles did not think that was a good idea. I circled back to what the medicine was going to do. This time I pointed out that I had a lot of hair, so I would probably get a big lollipop. And I could probably get him one too.
Pleased with myself, I worked in a quick reference to Halloween and wigs and moved to close the discussion. Wrong.
Miles' social intuition kicked in. He immediately said I don't think you should wear a wig to work, Mommy. (What? Who is talking about work? Damn, double damn.) Why not, Miles? People will think you look silly. (Here we go) What should I say if people think I look silly, Miles? You should tell them that isn't very nice. (Fuck. Why did I think I was talking to him about lollipops?). Okay, Miles, if they say I look silly I will tell them it isn't nice, but I think they will like my wig. And scene, as they say.
Just to fill out the screenshot, Ian and Jim were playing dead during the whole exchange.
So, aside from being forced to follow his lead, a relatively easy discussion. I was proud of myself for going straight through the middle of it.
I go to work. I have a good day. I come home. Play pirates.
At bedtime, the hair comes back up. Miles has some questions about the wig. Where will I get it? At a store. A wig store? Yes. What color will it be? The same color as my hair is now. Wait for it…
Gray? He asks. Gray? Aghast. Horrified. Betrayed. Speechless. I mean, I think my blond hair is the defining aspect of my identity. Gray? He is lucky Christmas is over.
Gray? He asks. Gray? Aghast. Horrified. Betrayed. Speechless. I mean, I think my blond hair is the defining aspect of my identity. Gray? He is lucky Christmas is over.
Incidentally, I'm on a bit of a high right now. I'm through the first course of treatment. I know I can handle it. The head shave is ahead of me, and the vast majority of women with breast cancer rank losing their hair as harder than losing a breast, so I expect it will be a bad day. But hey, since it is GRAY, it might as well go.
