Today’s the day.
It’s the lesser of two evils: having cancer, or being bald. I’ll take being bald, thank-you very much. It is a very small price to pay for my life.
There is so much to do before I sit in the barber’s chair. I’d like to “not” be seen bald when buying a hoe so that I can prepare my summer garden. I’d like to “not” be seen bald when cooking a turkey for family today. I’d like “not” to be seen bald when helping out at our garage sale. I guess that’s it. I can kayak bald. I can swim bald (even better!). I can walk bald. I can bike bald. Whatever. I just can’t talk myself out of having cancer when I’m faced with a bald head. That’s the problem.
Why is it such a big deal?
It reminds me I’m diseased.
I can’t pretend anymore. I see it. I feel it. This is my third episode of balding and it is still not any easier.
Fuck it. Fuck cancer.
You know what I mean?
I need to dig my fingers into the dirt today. I need to go and plant some plants. I need to get dirty in the garden. Grounded. I need to ground myself. There is something magical about dirt. I think sometimes that I missed my calling to be a farmer. I hated gardening when I was young – it was too “dirty”. Oh, the weeds I had to pull. Compost… I hated that too. Now, I stir, mix, and turn the compost containers in the back yard and get excited to see the rich earth that is produced from our kitchen scraps. What is it about aging and gardening? The older I get, the more I admire the process of growth. I admire the earth. I admire the worms. How odd. Yes, I need to dig in the garden today and forget about my hair.
But first, I need a hoe.