It's Been 7 Hours and 15 Days...

So I've been thinking about Sinead O'Connor lately, and what is perhaps the best break up song ever in the most sad category. But more importantly, do you remember the video? It's truly brilliant. It's nothing but her face the whole time, the shaved head, the gorgeous eyes, and her expressions say it all.  She even cries at one point. Seriously, if I looked like this right now I wouldn't be wasting my time with the hot, itchy wig. Forget the underhair and the bandanas. I'd be rocking my big bad bald head.  I realize she isn't technically bald, she's beautifully made up, and still has possession of her eyebrows and eyelashes, but still. I know you've had some rough times lately, Sinead, but this St. Patty's Day I am raising my cup of green tea in your honour - you rock. 

Allow me to segue into my own crazy experiences this week. It all started on Tuesday with what I thought were swollen eyes due to all the pollen from the ridiculously warm weather we've been having here. When my feet wouldn't fit into my shoes, my watch had to move to a bigger hole, and I could barely get my rings on, I figured something was up.  "Is this normal?", I ask my oncologist.  "Well, it's not abnormal (I'm coming to detest that phrase), it's just that we tend to see it in patients closer to round five or six."  Fabulous, so I'm going to look like a blowfish by the time I get to that point?  She prescribes some kind of diuretic, but cautions me against using it too much (or at all?) because she's more concerned about me getting dehydrated than puffy.  Sigh.  Why is there never an easy answer?  So, I've basically accepted my new state of bloatedness, and if I feel like I might start to drift away I have the meds on hand to release the flow.  I also really need to buy some cheap flats in a bigger size for work, because my slip on garden clogs don't look very cute with a dress.

Which brings me to the hair.  "Has it started to fall out yet?", she asks.  "Yes," I admit, running a hand through my hair to reveal a fistful of blond locks.  "Do you have a plan?"  Hmmm.  "If by plan you mean ignoring my hair trail and trying to finish out the work week until I can face reality on the weekend, then yes."  "Honey, you're lucky if you have 24 hours.  I'd leave here and go to your hairdresser and get it done today."  Seriously?!  So now I'm in the parking lot sending a message to my boss:  Chris, do you mind if I work from home the rest of the afternoon? I need to shave my head.  Thanks, M.  Then I call my hairdresser who is of course booked for the day since I am calling same afternoon.  "Hi, Brenda.  This is Michelle, the Canadian - I was just in a couple months ago getting my haircut before returning to work?  I know this is a strange request, but would you have time to shave my head this afternoon?  Great, see you at 4.  Bye."  

At this point, I'm so tired of trying to keep it all together that I almost feel relieved that it's coming off.  My hairdresser is, of course, lovely and turns me away from the mirror so I can gaze out the window while she is buzzing away.  I repeatedly assure her that I'm fine, and she comments on what a nicely shaped head I have.  When she flips me around, it's really not that big a deal.  John basically gets this same haircut every 6 weeks.  (He usually gets #1 on the sides, and #2 on the top, whereas I have #1 all over). So I'm Sinead, so I'm G.I. Jane. Whatever. It's only hair. 

The "Weekender"

The harder day was Wednesday, when I actually had to wear my wig in public for real. When you're trying them on in the shop it's all fine and dandy because you still have your real hair underneath and it all seems to far away and surreal. Walking into work that day was difficult, humiliating really.  Of course everyone was gracious and said it looked fine, but I think it's horrendous. The problem is that I have really fine hair and it's hard to get past the fact that my volume has tripled. I feel like a muppet, or the fifth Beetle. Plus, all the extra weight gives me a headache by the end of the day (not kidding)! I also can't stand hair in my face, and of course they're very front heavy so you don't see the cap at your hairline. Drives me crazy. I have a feeling I will be moving toward scarves in the near future, and if they're not professional, so be it. I'm probably the only one that cares anyway.  Because I can tell you C was pretty much unphased and uninterested in my whole hair saga.  We had "the talk" while he was in the bathtub. I showed him my wig. I showed him my shaved head. He asked if I could help him find his boat...