On Boring Old Hair

My hair has grown back, almost a thick as it used to be. While I didn't lose it all to chemo and radiation, after my second infusion, and again after a second round of brain radiation last fall, my silver-white locks fell out in small handfuls, like passengers abandoning ship. The once-thick mane (of which I was quite vain) thinned and thinned, but never so much that it felt necessary to shave my head. I was thankful for the strands that hung in there. The texture changed, though; whenever I combed what was left, it felt brittle and fake, like cheap doll hair.

Lately, the pandemic has everyone up in arms about getting their hair cut. We've all been doing various degrees of quarantine for weeks and weeks; salons and barbershops have been shuttered. We've squabbled up and down about when and how to get them (and lots of other businesses) back open. I'll probably just cut my own hair until I am confident the COVID-19 risk is gone. So maybe it's just that the salon question has made me pay more attention to what's been going on with my own hair, but recently I've noticed it's grown below my shoulders again and looks and feels like mine, not like a plastic doll's. The other day, I braided it into a couple of convenient pigtails and went for a bike ride. So what? Right?

Yeah, not a big deal. Kind of ordinary. Kind of boring.

Except for the cancer. Except for the depth of gratitude I have, now, for boring.

I have scans coming up in a few days. I hope the results are equally boring.