I bought a wig

There's something a little creepy about going into a wig shop. I think it's all those mannequin heads with their plastic expressions and over-applied cosmetics. (Wasn't there a Twilight Zone episode where a character gets forever stuck in a department store with a bunch of freaky mannequins?)

My oncologist tells me there's about an 85% chance that I'll loose my hair during the chemo process. It could start falling out as soon as next week. Since we're hoping to go home to the farm for Thanksgiving, it made sense to me to go with the odds and get the wig now.

And, God got it right when he made me a dark brunette. I tried a sultry auburn which made my skin way too sallow, a light brown that was the quintessence of 'dishwater blonde' (on me...not Ms. Bug-eyed-pouty-lips-disembodied-mannequin-head), and a blondes-have-more-fun job that might have worked if I'd done my face up street walker style this morning. Nope, I'll just take my natural color (minus the grey roots), thank you very much.

Another thing.  I have a big head in the wig fitting world.  None of the average size wigs fit me, and they didn't have a single large for me to try on just for size. And, the wig I chose only comes in average, so the owner of the shop is reworking it by hand to fit me. This is no surprise at all. Even my boys, born one month premature, had full-term sized heads. Their little bodies may have been in the delicate 15th percentile, but their mother's-sons heads, 100 per cent, baby.



Creepy mannequin heads

P.S.  Had a really good day today. Felt like myself again for the first time since chemo last week, with the exception of my hands developing an arthritic-type feel to them, not an unheard of side effect of taxol/carbo chemo.