I just loaded the kids into Paul's car and they're off to school. When we were walking down the driveway I joked, "Who's going to be balder than Daddy tonight?!?" "Mommyyyy!" Teddy and Annabel both replied gleefully, which is all the peace I need for my head shave appointment today.
I'm not scared to be bald. I thought I would be. I'm not sad or mad or jealous (although I admit that if I had Connie Britton's hair (yes, I shamelessly loved Nashville) I may be sad and mad to lose it because seriously, she has awesome hair, and I'm convinced it's not extensions). But mine, it's frail and limp, kind of like my old boobs, so no big deal. Out with the old, as they say.
Today as I watch Monique buzz my hair off, I will also remember a few of the most beautiful students I ever taught -- gorgeous girls, now young women, with alopecia. They were stunning when they sat in my classroom with nothing but a simple scarf tied on their heads, and I'm certain they are even more gorgeous now, with a scarf or a wig or whatever they choose to wear or not wear. I marvel at the fact that years later, those freshman and sophomores in high school are teaching me, a 32-year-old, about inner beauty.
So cancer, yet again, I've got you on this one. You want my hair? Take it. Because my bald head means I'm one step closer to my cure. And you're one step closer to your complete end.