Fuzzy McLovin' II

I'm now 6 weeks out from my last full treatment, and any hopes I had of returning to the normal world and the gym with most of my hair intact have now gone out the window faster than my remaining hairs would if they weren't being held down with a hat at all times.

I've finally come to the conclusion that it's all going to go -- in its own time, but it's going to go. My lame attempt at a comb over became futile weeks ago, and I now walk around in a variety of hats, tricking the world into thinking that the few wisps of hair they see sticking out are merely the stragglers to the big hair party I've got going on up under the big top.

Little do they know I wake up to a little nest of hair on my pillow every morning that would make Big Bird drool.

If all goes according to the photos I took last year, I should have a faint stubble any day now. In a couple more weeks, I might lose my scalpish look and trim up what scraggly hairs I have left. But in the mean time, I lean over the trash can every morning and run my fingers obsessively through -- trying to limit the amount of hair that ends up in every other aspect of my life. My hair looks like a mangy dog, but the rest of me is back to normal. Gym rat status has been resumed, feet have healed, nausea pills are collecting dust in the cupboard and I'm back to pretending I'm just a regular girl.

It isn't the losing of hair that's so hard, it's the process of growing it back out that bothers me. This long-haired girl just longs to have a pony tail again.
Photos by Merrick, who says I look so beautiful in my wig, but not so much without it.
Holding back and (mostly) hiding what's left of my hair. Hairband locally made by UrbanHalo.

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