I’ve always had bad hair. That legacy comes from my father, who didn’t have much hair at all. He claimed he lost it early on because his brain got bigger when he went to college, baldness being the only downside of his extraordinary intellectual growth.
He was a Greek patriarch whose family came from a small village at the base of Mt. Olympus, descendants, he would claim, of the gods! I had not inherited the brilliance to be bald, but instead, limp thin tresses and the curse of cutting, curling, coloring, braiding, setting, all in vain. When it came to my head, the gods did not have me in mind.
Then a day came when a very good doctor told me that I would have to undergo harsh chemotherapy treatments if I wanted to live. I asked if I would lose my hair. She looked at me solemnly and said, “I’m afraid so.”
Thinking I would be devastated, she offered me a prescription to get a wig, trying to soften the blow.
“Wigs can be very expensive. Under these circumstances, I can give you a prescription to pay for it.”
I tucked it away, thinking I would use it when the time came, that it might a be a great improvement over my bad hair history, the years of trying to keep up with the latest fads and trends at the salon with my paltry locks. For so long, in spite of trying everything (cutting it short, growing it long, perming it, hot ironing it, rolling it up in beer cans) nothing had ever worked. Bobbi pins, barrettes, hair bands? All useless, sliding from place like laughter at my attempts to manage the mess on top.
What the good doctor did NOT know was that she had given me a silver lining in the dark cloud of diagnosis and treatment that loomed over my stringy-haired head. In the not-too-distant future, I wouldn’t have to contend with the fruitless routines of chasing down some version of a crowning glory. I now had a prescription in hand for a wig in a style of my choosing requiring no more work than putting in on and taking it off, covered by insurance to boot!
When my hair began to fall out, I decided to just shave all the rest off so as not to find strands and clumps all over the house. Besides, I could then hurry to get my fancy new wig, for free! The day I went to shave off whatever hair I had left, the hairdresser who buzzed me commented:
“Nice head! Great shape! PERFECT for this look!”
Perhaps she was being kind given my obvious circumstance, but I took her at her word.
“Look?”, I said aloud. “Finally! I have a look!” And this time, I was told, the look was “PERFECT.”
Fate brought me a moment when a hairdresser did not have to struggle with diplomacy to convince me that a cut, curl, or color provided something more than just OK. I wondered if the gods of my ancestral village at the base of Mt. Olympus were finally smiling down on me, just when I needed their blessing the most?
With that, I decided NOT to get my fancy, free wig. Instead, I treated myself to a great pair of earrings after each chemo treatment, celebrating my new “look”, that of a cool hipster with a perfect bald head and funky earrings.
Then, a funny thing happened. My hair grew back, and it was a game changer. No longer thin and limp, I was blessed with a thick dark mass filled with silver streaks.
“Where do you get your hair done? I love the color!” admirers asked , to which I confidently
answered, “Oh, you have to go to my oncologist for this mix!”
Months later, when I visited my good doctor for a follow-up, I thanked her for putting me on the path of healing. I also thanked her for providing me with a treatment plan that gave me a new “look”, admired by all, no wig required.
“Don’t be surprised if you get a few phone calls asking for “the look’”, I warned her.
She smiled and answered, “PERFECT!”
And at that moment, I finally thanked the gods.