CANCER: My Bush

Well gentle readers, I did it, pulled the trigger, got it over with. I had my hair cut off. I wish I could tell you that I was the ever brave, strong souled sista who was truly prepared for it. But then I would be lying. The way it went down was more like resignation wrapped in sadness. And honestly, I think that's kinda the way cancer works.

Yesterday, after dropping my favorite 5 y.o. off to school, while driving away, I phoned my dearest and most trusted hair advisor, Jia Jones. Now here's what you need to know, Jia has been the only person to cut my hair for the past 12 years. And Jia getis like a hair sherpa. She gets hair- especially mine. Jia is such a good friend that when I was stuck in the hospital for 11 weeks with pregnancy complications, she sure did come to my room, scissors in hand and gave me that perfect: "My ass is in control" haircut. And, when she dies, just like the ancient Egyptians, I will be buried with her. Good thing we're close in age.

Yesterday's conversation with Jia went like this: "Jia, I need you to look at my hair and tell me what to do. I'm a block away." Ever lovingly, she replied: "Come on over." Nope, I didn't give a shit if she had appointments booked till kingdom come. And, honestly in that moment, I would like to think that she didn't either.

Ten minutes later, my long, blonde, curly locks were cut. In mere minutes, I went from that wild haired, slightly frightening nigress to a tame, J.Crew flats, mom-jeans wearing, cute lady. Sigh! With my long, blonde, hair, I saw myself as a sexy, hot, desireable, mysterious, MILF. Now I'm cute. I guess I'm going to need to curse even more than ever to get away from that image.

I texted a photo of my new do to WCDO, Paul. (yes, I was fully dressed...much to his discontent....) He replied: "Oh, it's cute. I thought you were gonna look like Sinead O'Connor." Like that's a bad thing.....

Now, here's the come to Jesus moment I had. I asked myself what in God's name was I thinking? What woman in her right mind is able to rock cancer and still maintain some semblance of hotness? No, see- chemo isn't sexy. It IS radioactive. Now that does make me slightly dangerous, but not the way I want to be. Now I'm like- "Hey, wash your hands after you touch me or you're liable to set off metal detectors."

I am doing my very best to conjure up some bad-ass woman with short hair. The closest I can get to is Joan D'Arc. Now, that was one bad bitch. There are two problems I have though with that image:

1) Thanks to chemo, my boobs are way too big- and she was French. Need I say more?

2) She was burned at the stake. So unsavory.

I did like her wardrobe though. I can really wrap my head around a shapeless frock. Besides, they go perfectly with tame J. Crew flats.