My Head

I got praised for the condition of my head by the cancer outreach director who helped me select wigs. She said my head was "symmetrical and a good medium size." She remarked about the absence of any dryness or other obvious blemishes to my smooth skin. I've been taking pride in my head. Of course, being 52, I know already that whenever you begin to "take pride" in anything, you're flirting with opportunity and a hard lesson is sure to follow. Apparently a few hairs are still alive up there, refusing to abandon the cause, creating a velcro effect that is both itchy and annoying. I took it upon myself, with the razor I use in the bathtub on my legs, to clean up the emerging fuzz on my head. It was slick! I could reach everything. The resulting head was perfectly smooth. I patted on fresh moisturizer, pleased with myself for conquering this new personal hygiene challenge. The next morning I tossed on my wig (this is liberation folks!) and headed out for a day's activity. The day got hot. I eventually sweat and itch under the wig, so I was happy to lose it once I returned home. I laid down for a power nap and was awakened by the sensation of about a million tiny ants climbing Mount Head. I rushed to the mirror only to find dozens of raised, red, irritated microbumps dotting the shiny surface. Men and bikini girls, I understand you can relate to this phenomena--what shall we call it--"Shaving Rash"? Apparently my head isn't used to being shaved so close and responded to the straight razor with an appropriate protest. Who knew? I'm not excited for future lessons on pride, or any other topic for that matter, that cancer is sure to teach me. Not excited at all.