Meet Molly, my 10 year old tabby. I’ve often thought Molly was me, personified. Molly is a sweet cat, but can get pretty feisty if need be…I like that about her. I’ve heard that can be me sometimes, too! She also has adapted (like me!)well to change…all those dogs over the years!! Some like our Pudding, who lives and let lives..others like wild Bill, whose goal in life is to protect HIS house from cats, at all costs. Last week, it cost him his manhood!! (poor, castrated soul!).
Back to Molly…she also adapted perfectly to her new home in Wildervank, loving the patches of sunshine in the garden, loving the rooftops, where she can lounge, dog-free all day long. But what sets Molly apart from her sister smeesha and what makes her and I all the more alike is shedding!! Yes, dear readers, I’ve become a chubby, stripey cat these days. I’m shedding. I wanted to ignore it at first, wanted to believe that I would never lose my hair, that I’d be the one and only chemo patient with her own hair. Of course I knew it would eventually happen, just maybe later…Helas, just like Molly in early summer, my hair is falling out in clumps. I dare not comb it, touch it, gel it. Yes, it is time to become the quintessential cancer patient, it is time to throw caution to the wind …it’s my time to become bald. I thought briefly about shaving my own head with Wilfried’s clippers, but have decided to call the hairdresser and allow her the honours…then I will become someone different. No, I don’t mean Victoria, I mean visibly a cancer patient. My Wilfried chooses baldness. Yes, he would have a little edge of hair, like a monk…but he dutifully shaves it off every morning, his head shining proudly. I, however, have no choice. If I don’t shave it in the next few days, it will eventually all fall out in pieces, dreadfully sick looking clumps. I want to spare myself that step. I need to accept this baldness and need to look at myself squarely in the mirror and love the face staring back. It frightens me. It is the face of the disease which has taken over my body. Will it be a constant reminder or will it become the new me, like my mastectomy has.
Molly is lucky…she sheds more than half her body weight every spring…huge clumps of fur. brush-brush-brushes and combs full…yet it all comes back every fall. Back to her glorious, bushy self. Will I be so lucky? I’ve struggled with this hair of mine my entire life. I’ve coloured and straightened it, curled and teased it. Pulled it into submission…wondered why it fizzed and curled, questioned why it wasn’t long and blond. My morning ritual will no longer include fancy shampoos and conditioners, mousses and gels…no more hot brushes and irons, no more cursing rainy weather. It’ll be a jump in and out of the shower…a lick of makeup and lipstick and a quick good-morning whispered to Victoria as i brush her gloriousness and pull her on my shiny head. The call has been made, the hairdresser will be here tomorrow morning at 11…and if I get the courage, I’ll snap a shot of the new, bald me…and introduce her to the world before she’s covered up with her new crowning glory.
I’ll leave you with a few snaps of my animals…they possess all the hair I’ll ever need if I ever get the desire to run my fingers through it, play with it or brush it!