Exposed

I was tired of the scarves that I once felt okay about.
I missed having hair that I could run my hands through and although the ease of hopping out of the shower and going in 5 minutes flat has been lovely; it sucks at the same time.

So I made the leap and made an appointment with my hair stylist to get my 1.5 inch of hair colored.

I wasn't about to lose the scarf in public until the gray was gone so off I went to the salon.
And I walked in...
in a scarf.
Naturally walking into a salon with a head covering got me some looks. I mean, if you're going to get your hair done you kind of have to show your hair.
But was still petrified of the world seeing me exposed.
I still feel like I scream "cancer girl" and I suppose I will for a while longer.
 Until I can sport a short bob or something that makes me a feel a bit more like "me".

And it's not like the scarf doesn't scream cancer girl either but I feel like it's more known.
You see the scarf it's clear what's going on underneath there.
The 1.5 inch of hair is questionable though.
Are people thinking "Um, she totally can NOT rock the Pat Benatar look". "I wonder if she likes her hair that short" "I wonder if she is cancer girl"

Do I care?

Mostly not. I've gotten used to the warm smiles and subtle stares.
But still...
still; you have cancer. And everything.. short hair, no hair, scars, it all just sucks.

A the stylist was running a bit behind so while I sat in the chair in my scarf trying to look inconspicuous and noticing the kinda rude stylist staring at me I started to get a panic attack.
Not because of rude man but because of watching everyone's hair fall on the floor.
Because brushes were being rolled over long locks and I can barely put a finger through mine.
Deep breath, my friend reminded me as I texted her over my attack.
Breathing of course only reminds me of radiation because everything at this point in my life is tied to cancer.
But I breathe as I'm told and I turn back to the US magazine because pictures of adorable Princess Charlotte trumps fear any day.

So its finally my turn to sit in the chair and take off the bandana and I am feeling the entire salon  staring back at me.
Of course they weren't.
Just A the stylist was staring at me.
And not a bad stare.
 I mean, he kinda has to stare at me if he's going to color my hair.
And this was the beginning to my scarfl-ess life.
Color.

I beam in the mirror when he is done as this is the first time in 6 months I felt semi human.
I burst through the door after snapping a few selfies to a couple of besties and am awaiting the response from the immediate cavalry.
Youngest and Oldest tell me it looks good and then return to their screens.
DH also tells me the same and I'm starting to believe it.
Until I don't.
Until I look in the mirror again.
Really look.
And I cry.
I cry because I do not look like me.
Because I do not look like the person I was 8 months ago.
Because I am not the person I was 8 months ago.
Because I so desperately WANT to be the person I was 8 months ago.
And because I don't.
Because the good of cancer (irony) is that it's made me stop and think.
About everything.
Almost too much but that's my type A analytic obsessive self pre-cancer.
Because I now am insistent that I will not waste time on things that don't matter and I will spend time on things that do.
And I cry I guess because I know the person staring back at me really is me and I know the short 1.5inch of hair will some day be long again and of course I know this hair doesn't make me me.
But it's a reminder.
It's a constant damned reminder.

I'm exposed now.
With all the crap going on in the world this week please remember that Princess Charlotte always TRUMPS fear.