95. Wiggy

Bit of a misnomer really. I don’t wear my wig. I hate the itchiness, the plastic hair hanging around my head and also I really, really fucking hate the way it LOOKS. It looks fake. So why bother?

I didn’t like scarves either. I tended to wear head wraps rather than flowing scarves and the volume of fabric made my head really hot. Instead, I made some soft jersey hats from a pattern recommended by a fellow breast cancer women I met at a seminar on work and pension rights.

I’d been wearing the hats for a couple of months. They were easier to wear than a scarf because I could just throw them on. Also, they LOOKED better than scarves. But as chemo went on, my hot flushes were ramping up and getting worse. There was one awful moment in John Lewis when I had one and the back of my head under my hat was wet with sweat. Finally I snapped. I go hatless at home when I’m on my own. Ergo, I was only wearing a hat to please other people. Fuck that shit. Bad enough having cancer, facing death and chemo. It’s ME I should be putting first not other people.

So. I resolved to give up the hat. My daughter had already got used to me not wearing one but R hadn’t seen me bald, other than while shagging (and he has his eyes shut then). I sent him a warning text. The first time he saw me, I was very self conscious but steeled myself to it. He was OK. He kissed me on the fluff on the top and that was it really.

There have been lots of first times since then. Usually, I feel OK. Occasionally, when in the company of crowds of normal, healthy people, I feel as if my head is a beacon, signalling my ill health. Sometimes I feel pretty, sometimes I feel as if I’m a monster (strong word, but true). Fortunately there are a lot of ugly people about. Find one and stand next to them is a good coping technique!