Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Ask Sherwin-Williams
I saw my plastic surgeon yesterday. Upon being asked how I was, I confessed that I'm rather upset about my thinning hair (which I'm not even sure anybody else notices). It's stupid, but that really is what bothers me most. I can deal with funky scars: they're all concealed anyway. I'm not particularly worried about cancer having spread, and the possibility of a recurrence on the other side isn't as frightening as dealing with it the first time, since I know what to expect. I hate going to chemotherapy appointments and am looking forward to the day I don't have to go anymore, but it's a relatively small chunk of time out of my life. I have some random arm pain that ought to irk me more than it does, but I figure proper stretching will help with that. No, what bothers me most are my feeble follicles.
I can't really hide my head.
I've always had ridiculously thick hair. Lots of it. It is unruly and requires severe taming in the morning. I have had long hair, short hair, medium hair, scrunched curly hair, blown-out slightly curvy hair, helmet hair, slicked-down hair, teased hair, and all manner of layers. Now I have thin hair that looks stupid and barely conceals my scalp no matter what I do. I begin to understand the comb-over impulse. There are patches of scalp (not bald spots, really, just thin areas that seem to part where there should be no part) that must be concealed.
It's rather funny and also rather hideous that somebody whose vanity and self-image have been rather severely attacked by the necessity of drastic surgery should worry so much about something that's trivial and will grow back. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. I rather like hats. It's very far from being an actual tragedy.
The surgeon was very sympathetic and commented that his mother had been diagnosed with lymphoma when she was in her seventies, and suffered hair loss as a result of the treatment. Even somebody older can feel as icky about losing hair as somebody my age, and he said that hair is the thing people tend to stress about the most.
"My dad gave her absolutely no sympathy," he said, and went on to call his dad a "jerk." (I'm sure he meant it in a loving way, hehehe.)
I have a tentative appointment for the next surgery (June 23). The reconstructed area will need to be tattooed, then shaped into the appropriate contour to match the other side. Mercifully it's an outpatient thing, although I plan to vomit from the anesthesia. Why break a perfectly good trend? By June chemo will be over, and hopefully that date won't interfere with any of the trips I'm hoping to take.
I'd gotten my clothes on and was about to head for the office of the lady who schedules the surgery when the doctor's assistant came back into the room, bearing what looked like paint sample swatches.
"We need to match the color of the other side," she said apologetically.
"Sure," I said, and lifted up my shirt, while the sample was held up for comparison. I am like a piece of furniture being matched to the wall paint color. I never imagined that anything like this would be occurring in my vicinity. The fact that it was happening to me makes it all the more bizarre. I shouldn't be surprised at anything that happens anymore. After all, I've beaten peculiar odds by being diagnosed at my age and have elected to play musical body parts. Nothing else should surprise me, not even being matched to "Flesh 8" and some kind of pinkish complementary color.
I should have asked if I could keep the color swatch.
I can't really hide my head.
I've always had ridiculously thick hair. Lots of it. It is unruly and requires severe taming in the morning. I have had long hair, short hair, medium hair, scrunched curly hair, blown-out slightly curvy hair, helmet hair, slicked-down hair, teased hair, and all manner of layers. Now I have thin hair that looks stupid and barely conceals my scalp no matter what I do. I begin to understand the comb-over impulse. There are patches of scalp (not bald spots, really, just thin areas that seem to part where there should be no part) that must be concealed.
It's rather funny and also rather hideous that somebody whose vanity and self-image have been rather severely attacked by the necessity of drastic surgery should worry so much about something that's trivial and will grow back. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. I rather like hats. It's very far from being an actual tragedy.
The surgeon was very sympathetic and commented that his mother had been diagnosed with lymphoma when she was in her seventies, and suffered hair loss as a result of the treatment. Even somebody older can feel as icky about losing hair as somebody my age, and he said that hair is the thing people tend to stress about the most.
"My dad gave her absolutely no sympathy," he said, and went on to call his dad a "jerk." (I'm sure he meant it in a loving way, hehehe.)
I have a tentative appointment for the next surgery (June 23). The reconstructed area will need to be tattooed, then shaped into the appropriate contour to match the other side. Mercifully it's an outpatient thing, although I plan to vomit from the anesthesia. Why break a perfectly good trend? By June chemo will be over, and hopefully that date won't interfere with any of the trips I'm hoping to take.
I'd gotten my clothes on and was about to head for the office of the lady who schedules the surgery when the doctor's assistant came back into the room, bearing what looked like paint sample swatches.
"We need to match the color of the other side," she said apologetically.
"Sure," I said, and lifted up my shirt, while the sample was held up for comparison. I am like a piece of furniture being matched to the wall paint color. I never imagined that anything like this would be occurring in my vicinity. The fact that it was happening to me makes it all the more bizarre. I shouldn't be surprised at anything that happens anymore. After all, I've beaten peculiar odds by being diagnosed at my age and have elected to play musical body parts. Nothing else should surprise me, not even being matched to "Flesh 8" and some kind of pinkish complementary color.
I should have asked if I could keep the color swatch.
