April 9, 2009 Only My Hairdresser knows

My hair is white. My post chemotherapy hair is white like snow. It is two inches long, soft and curly. I am shocked by its absolute whiteness, like the woolly head of God I think. It looks like I sudsed up a lather of shampoo and piled it on top of my head, a kid in a tub. I wonder how it would look grown to my preferred length. Should I leave it white?
A few years ago a friend of mine showed up with a great new haircut. When pressed, she admitted it was a wig. "No way," I said. "I want one!" She went with me to try on wigs. One looked too young. The other too old, the other too floozyish. I'd almost given up hope until I tried the "right" one. It was great! On the occasional bad hair day or vacationing at the beach, my wig was the perfect answer. I liked it so much I took it to my hairdresser to copy so eventually you couldn't tell whether I was wearing a wig or not. When chemo finally took my hair, I was ready and my public none-the-wiser.
There is a vast difference between wearing a wig to cover a bad hair day and wearing one to cover up baldness or strangely colored regrowth. The first being optional. Wig-wearing soon grows old and I like nothing better than arriving home at the end of the day and tossing my wig on the bed. My husband says he doesn't mind but sometimes I leave it on through dinner to let him see me as his old PRE-cancer girl.
He makes jokes but I can't help but wonder what it's really like for him to have this little flat mangle-chested woman running around imposing as his wife. He must miss the old girl. I do.
"I'm too young for white hair," I tell my daughter. "You're 58!" She replies as if to say "who-are-you-kidding"? I remember her favorite nursery poem by the slightly deranged Lewis Carrol:
You are old Father William, I said to the man, and have grown most incredibly fat. Yet you did a back somersault in at the door. Tell me what was the meaning of that?
I don't feel like a senior citizen quite yet. That clinches it! Redken, here I come.