(Janis Joplin reference)
I got the cut last week. I went to a hair stylist, which is way more expensive than having the local rancher do it, but it turned out my barber was off on the day I decided to do it, and I knew that there was no time like the present, so I prowled the shopping center and found a stylist that was open and not busy and went in and said, “I want the cancer cut.”
Turns out the lady that cut my hair had cancer herself back in the 1970s, which may or may not be providential. She described hers, and I didn’t recognize it, and then I described both of mine, both of which are fairly evident and recognizable, and we went from there.
We had a pleasant conversation, while she snipped and snipped and snipped away, and I never had time to think about what it would be like to have someone shave my head, something I presumed was coming fairly soon.
No. We talked about survivorship and treatment, and things of that sort, and I did most of the answering while she did most of the questioning, which indicates, I think, that she would have been a good bartender, too. Before I knew it, we were getting down to the brass tacks.
She said she was not going to shave it off, and had some reason for that (probably something along the lines of ‘You never know!’) and left a bit of lint all the way around. That was fine with me. The difference, frankly, was marginal.
I started to think of Bruce Willis lines for when I wrote this, but they aren’t really that funny.
Except the one about how I look like Bruce Willis after his head had been squeezed in a vise. And the one about Prince Charles.
Not really funny. But I’m good with the cut.
My wife didn’t know about the cut, but I knew what she would do when she saw it. Unlike when we got married, when I shaved my moustache (she had never seen me without my moustache, a rather pronounced one at the time) when she asked me where the h*ll her husband-to-be was and I replied that she was stuck with me. Yes, she did what I knew she would do: she rubbed it and prescribed it ‘cute’. I am so thankful that we don’t have poodles. She would have left me long ago if we had poodles.
So I am getting used to it. And apparently, so is my son.
I bought a nice little two-seater after my first cancer, deciding that it was now or never in that regard, as we are wont to do, I suppose, and it is a car that people compliment, although we are not rich and it is not really an expensive car, and I was giving him a ride today to a friend’s house, and I was wearing the brand new starched white shirt I wore when his grandfather died last month, the purchase made necessary because none of my shirts fit my skinny neck any more, and he turned to me and said, “Dad, you look rich.”
I asked him what he meant by that. He is old enough to know better (:)). He said, ‘You just look like you’re on your game. I don’t know. The car, the shirt, the hair. You look rich.’
I’ve got to go back to that salon and give that lady a bigger tip.