What It's Really Like To Be A Bald Woman

This article was originally published on BetterAfter50.com. Recently, on New Year's Day, I got out of bed with just a trace of a hangover, ran my fingers through my hair, and took a bunch of strands with me to the bathroom. What a way to start 2016, right? It got worse from there -- for the rest of the day Friday, then on Saturday and Sunday -- whether I was at home, synagogue, at a funeral, out to dinner, or drying my newly polished toenails, everywhere I went, I left a trail of hair. More tempting than the ripest of scabs, I simply couldn't stop picking. Mike and I hadn't seen so much hair in the house (on pillows, blankets, fleece jackets, couches) since our last days with Sophie, our dear yellow lab. And as I shed, I remembered that Mike never really liked Sophie, and he absolutely abhorred the fur all over the house. There was a slight chance, I thought, that Mike might want to put me down. So by Sunday night I decided that it was time to say goodbye to my hair, for just awhile. It's supposed to be part of the whole "take charge of that cancer before it takes charge of you" thing, but I'm not sure how empowering it was ... it was actually rather horrifying. Mike got out the scissor, the buzzer, and the electric razor. He interrupted the process with a couple of timeout kisses (aw). I sat there on a kitchen chair, completely numb, as he did the deed, and I was absolutely sure I would never be able to look in the mirror again. "Is it red and blotchy?" "No." "Is it ...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news