The salon is quirky—an indoor swing, a stuffed unicorn—silver and pink everywhere.My stylist meets me at the doortearful and subdued,as though about to prepa beloved aunt for burial.
She throws the black curtainover my body, snaps it at the neck,and after discussionsets the razor to ¼ inch.Magnolia blossoms of hair pelt downon the wrap, the floor, our feet,and I am nearly bald.Not three minutes have passed.
I tug my new, white pixie wigfor public wear over the stubble.It’s scratchy and tight and looksso much better than my real, pre-shave hairthat she gasps at the little moonthat will hug my face all day—pharmacy, car, grocery store.I get so many complimentson my snowy look.
And I think, when this damn canceris gone and my battered bodycan travel again, I’m going to Rome,to London, Cornwall, Berlin,my own, less attractive hairframing my newly-happy face.
Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash