Wig Hats

Put on your high heel sneakers,
Wear your wig hat on your head,
Put on your high heel sneakers,
And your wig hat on your head.
Ya know you're lookin' mighty fine, baby,
I'm pretty sure you're gonna knock 'em dead.




For somebody as improverished and unfashionable as I am, I have acquired an absurd number of wigs.  I've even had to mount a separate shelf to help hold them all.Three from my friend Frieda*, the impossible one from Dorothy* the wigmonger, the two and 2/3 (counting the "halo" I wore for the first time on Sunday) I have from the ACS fashion prosthetics arm, and as of Monday, two from my mom.

One, which I can only describe as Texas Big Hair (sorry, Mom) is a reddish shade that is shockingly like the color of my hair as previously dyed (I know-- I kept a lot of it when I had it cut two weeks ago).  Color looks good on me; the style-- hmm, not sure where I can wear it, definitely dress-up party material.

But the other one is a lot more sensible and looks the best on of the whole lot.  It's a medium brown with blonde highlights styled in a short informal flip.  Kind of a Mariska Hargitay look, and if I want to evoke a celeb, I'd rather it were she than a lot of others.  I've worn that one a lot this week, and I think it looks the most like me; or at least, me when my hair is behaving.

Meanwhile, on Tuesday I figured out why the dark brown "Caitlin" wig looks so puffy and big on me.  It's too big.  I tried it on again and noticed, good grief, my ears are sticking out at a 45 degree angle!  I'd already decided I needed to trade in the "Sabrina," since it's way too blonde.  I called the TLC people and found out I'd measured the ear to ear dimension totally wrong.  Then I looked at the TLC wig from Frieda I successfully wore on Saturday, and discovered it's a Petite.

So today both of those went back.  Can't return them, since they were on sale, but I'm getting the replacements in the smaller size, with the long brown one in a tone with some highlights in.  Don't really fly with that stark '70s rocker look.  And the shorter curly one, I'm going with the same brown with blonde highlights that I like in the one Mom sent me.  I figure that way I won't freak people out so badly-- to the casual observer, it'll just look like I've got my hair curled or not.

I think I'll be a bit relieved when my hair comes out entirely.  Till then I'm wearing a little knit scullcap under the wigs to keep the loose hairs out of them.  And sometimes it's a bit hot and a lot of times it itches.  But I get used to it, I find.  After awhile, I'll be able to wear my wig of choice and forget I have it on, just like I can live my life and take care of my business and forget I'm dealing with cancer and chemo or any of that foolishness.

Just for fun, here's the remainder of the wig parade, mostly taken in my bathroom mirror:

"Caitlin," Take 1

"Sabrina," Take 1.  Not too bad in this light, actually . . .   But still not me.

Curly halo, with hat, of necessity

And I still don't have a picture of the awful one.

Where I'm going to use all these, I have no idea.  Too bad Dorothy* didn't have a René of Paris catalog in her shop.  The ones Mom sent are that brand, and his whole line looks very nice.  If I could have selected one like the short one, we would have solved the problem right away and I wouldn't be squirming under un embarras des richesses.

Round Two, Week One

Received my second chemotherapy infusion yesterday.  Nurse Nell* was willing to forego trying to put the cannula into the back of my left hand this time, but the first wrist vein we tried eluded the needle when she put it in.  So it was back to the tried and true sites on the inside of my wrist.

No flashbacks to the keg parties at the college dorm from the Benadryl this time.  When I told Nurse Nell it hadn't made me feel sleepy, just drunkish, she gave it to me more slowly.  And as the afternoon wore on, I was certainly tempted to catch some ZZZZs!

I exercised some discipline and used the first hours mending two more sweaters.  I will not have the schoolchildren next fall laughing at the holes under the arms of my cardies!  That wasn't a penance, despite the heat outdoors.  They do an excellent job at the Cancer Center keeping the interior climate controlled, not too chilly and not too warm.  Haven't needed to use the quilt I brought yet.

This time, though, I didn't get as much Western Civ literature read.  Brought my laptop and wasted a lot of time trying to get online via the fragile guest wireless signal they provide.  Managed to make a couple of Facebook status reports, but otherwise I was refreshing and refreshing and trying, trying, trying to reconnect more than I was working or surfing.

My pod mates were all older gentlemen.  One being treated for abdominal cancer (Eh.  That's the metastasis from my ovarian cancer I'm trying to avoid), one getting chemo for colon cancer, and the other one, I didn't ask.  The colon cancer guy was on infusion eight in a course of twelve.  Wow.  He told me that people "sail through the first one or two treatments, but it gets rougher after that."  Uh, yes, I've heard that can happen . . . meaning that every good day or week I have is to be received with conscious gratitude.

(I'm on to preach at least three times this summer.  Wonder if I should write those sermons now, while I'm still feeling half-decent?)

They must all have been getting different medications than I, because none of them were sporting chrome domes.  Me, I'm thinning out more every day.  (More on that below.)

It was interesting, too, that I was the first one in the pod and the last one out.  I started my pre-meds a little after 11:00 AM and finished up my chemo at 4:30.  Only one other woman was there getting chemo after me. 

My report time was actually 9:45, but I saw the doctor and had my bloodwork done first.  Found out from him that yes, I may take my beta-blocker pill if I need it; yes, I can have a glass of wine or a beer if I want it; and the reason I've had the munchies the past week and a half is because that's what Decadron, the steroid they give me pre-chemo, works.  It has been weird:  First ten days post-chemo, I've craved small meals of very healthy food.  Then bang! my blood sugar was crashing at the most unexpected times and I wanted chips!  donuts!  cornbread!  hot dogs!  at all hours.  And don't show me a piece of lettuce, though every lettuce plant in my garden should bolt from neglect!  I gained nearly a pound and a half since the 21st.

Today I'm back to the healthy eating phase.  At the moment I'm consuming a nice salad of lettuce, shelled snow peas, purple sweet peppers, mushrooms, and shredded cheese, the first three ingredients all from my garden.

Last night, I ground up some more leaves and mulched more of the vegetable garden.  I'm feeling quite normal today, too, maybe because I'm heeding the instructions and taking my anti-nausea pills even when I feel just slightly queasy.

My American Cancer Society wigs have come in and the best of them is the "halo" (tonsure!) you have to wear under a hat or scarf because it has no pate to it.  All of them need the bangs feathered out and thinned down, and I'm wondering if I've been a little too daring in ordering the Sabrina model in the golden blonde.  Though I've historically been on the blonde side, the dark brown of the Caitlin looks more "me," somehow.  And whichever one we're talking about, I think I have to get used to more bulk at the top.  Must be the Current Style.  But these aren't so bulky and wiggy as my "official" cancer wig is.  It still looks awful.  I tried it on for Frieda* when she came to pick me up yesterday morning and she thinks it definitely needs major pruning.

Oh, well.  I'm thinking of taking my whole wig wardrobe over next door the next time everybody gathers on the neighbors' porch and letting them say what they think.  If the golden blonde is agreed to be Too Much, I can always try again in my usual dark brownish (aka "dirty") blonde.

Once I'm satisfied I have at least one whole wig I won't be embarrassed to be seen walking about wearing in public, I'm going to drape a towel around my shoulders, take my hog-bristle hairbrush, and brush, brush, brush my hair right outta my head.

Something Really Silly . . .

. . . and then I'll go deadhead roses.

I was being a little negative in my last post about the chemo baldness covering catalog the Cancer Center gave me on Thursday. But I have to admit that the models all looked very nice in their hats and turbans and scarves. And I don't think it's just because they're all young and high-cheekboned and wrinkle-free.

I have some scarves in my wardrobe, and I was online last night looking up tying techniques. I found some really cute ones here. But I found one site, which I will not link to out of consideration for the cancer-patient model, where the look was depressing and just plain awful, no matter how many twists and tails she gave it.

Was it because she was older and chubbier and jowlier than the girls in the paper catalog? Was I looking at her and thinking, "Oy vey, is that the best I'm going to look in a scarf? Yuck!"

But then I discovered what was wrong. The model in question had a low forehead to start with. And then she had tied every last one of her scarf styles tight, tight, tight to her head, just a little below her (former) hairline. No matter what style she sported, she looked as if somebody had sliced off the top of her head à la Thomas à Becket and the scarf was just bandaging the gory wound.

Give the paper catalog company credit. All their hats and turbans are built up in the crown, all their pre-tied scarves are worn down just above the eyebrows, and they all look stylish and cute. What's more, they sell a little quilted cotton cap and a padded scarf liner you can wear under your scarves and kerchiefs to add height and volume. Good thinking!

I'll keep this in mind. High and tight-- tacky. Low and loose, lovely.

Now I really go gotta deadhead roses!

Now for Something Completely Frivolous

My eldest niece, who has just turned 39, has always been a blonde. Not a bottle blonde; not a medium-ash-blonde-verging-on-dishwater-brown like me; but a real blonde, like her father. But a month or so ago, Micki* got a bee in her bonnet and decided to go brunette.

Really dark brunette, actually. Nearly black, with bluish highlights.

I'm not 100% crazy about it . . . not that it's awful . . . it's rather striking, in fact. I just wish she'd picked a warmer shade. The bluish highlights match her gray-blue eyes a little too well. Makes her look monochromatic. The bright red lipstick she's taken to wearing with the look is very effective, however. And overall, Micki carries it off. It's not like I agree with my mom (Micki's grandmother) who has told her categorically to Never Ever Do That Again.

And that's a good thing, or I'm the biggest hypocrite in the Western Hemisphere.

Because when I saw the pictures Micki sent me of her new look, I was impressed with her guts. And I remembered the fantasies I had in high school about me being a mysterious, glamourous brunette, instead of a verging-on-dishwater-brown-medium-ash-blonde. I never had the courage to act on that; indeed, I never colored my hair at all till eight and a half years ago when I saw how dull and greenish-brownish-gray it looked in a video of me preaching at a friend's church. And since then I'd always gone a shade or two lighter than my best summertime natural color.

But now I studied Micki's photos and thought, "If my niece can do it, why can't I? And if not now, when?"

Somebody's fashion blog I read recently said be sure to redo your color when you start seeing a "landing strip" on the top of your head . . . . Yep, there it was. Signal the blue runway lights and the guys with the long red flashlights! And, God willing and nothing getting in the way, I have a preaching audition (we call it a neutral pulpit in the PCUSA) scheduled for the 14th of March. I'd definitely have to redo my color before then . . . but if I redo the ash blonde, I'll probably lose my nerve and never try the brunette. Besides, if the committee meets me as a blonde and I suddenly go darker, won't that look frivolous? And if I did the brunette and didn't like it, there'd be time for my hair to settle down and I could redo the blonde before the 14th.

So . . . A week or so ago, I went to Wally World and bought the Box. Revlon "Colorsilk" No. 30 Dark Brown. Got it home, all ready to use last weekend when everybody was snowed in. But I kept looking at the picture and thought, No . . . bluish-gray highlights. What was it, again, that I thought about the shade my niece used? And I'm about to do the same? No.

So I took it back. And ended up with a (much more expensive) box of Clairol's "Perfect Ten" No. 5 Medium Brown.

And nearly took it back, when I got to wondering if it were dark enough. Maybe I'd not end up brunette, just brown!

But I didn't. And this evening, taking advantage of a choir practice cut short due to the threat of more snow, I took the plunge.

Not sure why, but the Clairol product seemed a lot messier than the Revlon. Maybe because it was for a darker shade? All I know is, I consumed most of the ten minutes you leave it on wiping dark brown splotches off the sink, walls, floor, faucets, and various other surfaces in my bathroom. I still haven't got it all out of the grout.

But how does it look, you ask?

Pretty good, I think. Natural enough on me that when I look in the mirror I think, "Ye gods, I have to do something about those bangs!" rather than "Oh my gosh, my hair's been possessed, That's Not MEEEE!!!!"

No pictures tonight, I'm sorry. I tried, but my camera made them over-light, even without the flash. Going by them, you wouldn't be able to tell much difference at all.

But there is a difference, and we'll wait and see who notices and what people think. And as soon as I get somebody to take some decent photos, I'll post a new profile shot on Facebook. And send some to Micki. Because really, it's all her fault!

Hairy Experience

A couple weeks ago I was substituting in an area junior high school and one of my responsibilities was a study hall. The eighth graders were, um, multitasking at their studies, and besides looking at algebra and geography they had lots of attention left over for chatter and moving around the room. I came back to one boy's desk to get him refocussed on his homework. As I did he piped up, "I really like your glasses! Where did you get them?"

Well, I may be middle-aged in years but I'm young and dumb in public school teaching. Me, I didn't want to seem cold and unfriendly. So I answered him: "At the dollar store."

A little later, same kid calls up to me as I stand at the front of the room: "That's a great skirt you have on? Where did you get it?"

You see how young and dumb I really was, for I took that at face value and answered it, too: "At the Goodwill." I mean, why should I be ashamed to champion reuse and recycling?

Whereat the eighth grader grins impishly, taps his buddy in the seat in front of him, and snerks, "Yeah, I thought so!"

I was alerted to his lack of bona fides now. Awhile later, when I was walking along their row trying to keep things going in the general direction of study, the first kid's buddy pipes up and says, "Hey, I really like your hair! It looks so smooth and shiny! What shampoo do you use?"

All right, that's enough. The glasses I don't really like, they were just the ones I could find that morning that were the right strength. But hey, maybe somebody else might truly like them. The skirt was a classic challis print, not the height of fashion, but a good cut for me. My hair that day, however--! Any references to it being "smooth and shiny" had to be blatant lies. I knew good and well it was a frizzy stack of straw, because I'd had to blow it dry the day before and it was worse than usual. But my hair is naturally wavy, even curly, and what could I do?

Serendipitidous, then, that a few days ago I came across this post on Beauty Tips for Ministers on the trials of coping with naturally curly or wavy hair. In the comments I found a link to a post on the Curly Girls blog, all about how to make the best of your curls. Condition twice if your hair needs it, don't wring out your hair or towel it dry, comb out once but otherwise avoid using brush or comb, apply curl gel or mousse, dry your curls individually at high heat, high speed by laying them in the trough of your blow dryer's big diffuser. Etc., etc.

Hmm, think I, it might be worth taking a shot at that. I waited till today, when I had no summons to come in and teach. That'd give me the extra time.

Okay, hair washed and conditioned twice. Check. Excess water squeezed out only. Check. Combed through, part put in and that's all. Check. Curly hair gel applied. Check. Curls dried individually at high speed and heat in the trough of the blow dryer diffuser?

Not check. Oh so very not check, indeed.

The author of the Curly Girls blog has long hair. Maybe she can get her strands individually into the diffuser. My hair at the moment, however, is chin length. Will you please tell me how I can get any separate strand into that big diffuser? And how can I use the dryer at high heat and speed without it blowing into frizz my entire head of hair?

Maybe she could, but I can't. I reduced the speed to Low and tried a little more, then flipped my head back up. Front was dry-- in all sorts of useless directions, partularly the bangs-- and the back and sides were hanging there flatly in little curvy strands, soon to become frizz.

Phooey.

I've "set" the back and side hair in a scrunchy. I'll take it out when my hair's dry and see how things look then.

And maybe next hair wash I'll try doing everything up to the blowdry point and then just let it airdry, as I was advised by a former hairdresser when I was getting permanents. And take my comb down the basement (where my only shower is) and run it through my hair while it's still hanging upside down, before I even step out onto the bathmat. Just the lag time of going upstairs and getting dressed may have dried some of my hair out too much.

But the blowdryer? Meh. There's a reason I haven't gotten it out for years.

As for those two impudent kids, I chose to be snarky right back. What shampoo did I use? "Same as your mother buys for you!" Not the response most advisable, I now realize. Smart*ss kid doesn't call for smart*ass teacher. No, next time a student asks me personal questions like that, I'm thinking I'll have him look up the meaning of "impertinent" in the classroom dictionary. And make him copy out the entire definition, phonetic markings and all. On the chalkboard. Twenty times.

That'll larn 'im!

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour, Day Thirty-two

Friday, 6 January, 1989
Oostende to Dover to London to Oxford

The day dawned clear, bright, and beautiful. And me, not only was I up and ready in time to catch the ferry, I had time to take pictures of the ferry port with its new and old buildings, its piers, and its ships while I waited for my boat to come in.

We were underway around 8:00 AM. We cleared the harbor bars and set out into the Strait of Dover, which today was blue and calm, with an equally blue sky overhead. I spent most all of the time up on deck, watching the sunlight sparkling on the little waves and the occasional other craft that sailed past at a distance.

As we approached Albion’s yet-unseen shore, I came to understand that something has happened to me on this European trip, though maybe it started to happen when I came to Oxford last October: I was homesick for England.

Not just for Oxford or Coverdale* or Nigel* or the other people there. For England.

After awhile a horizontal strip of white began to sunder the medium blue of the sea and the pale blue of the sky . . .

Dover. It was the White Cliffs of Dover. Oh, God! It was England there on the horizon, with every nautical mile travelled growing grander and higher and more and more clear and substantial to my hungry, staring eyes. But not fast enough, not soon enough. I took in those cliffs, that shore, and I couldn’t help it-- I wept with homesickness and joy. It was England, it was home, I was coming home!

I wept, and I didn’t care. When we landed and disembarked at the Dover ferry port, I would have precipitously knelt down and kissed the tarmac, I was so glad to be back on British soil. But I was in a herd of other travellers being ushered towards the Customs station, and it would have been hard to explain my behaviour if a fellow-passenger had hurt himself tripping over me. Especially hard, considering I’m an American.

Thankfully, I had the presence of mind to get through Customs without making a fool of myself, and onto the train for London.

The train from Dover stops at Charing Cross. When I got there I discovered I’d made a false assumption: No, you can’t get a train to Oxford from there. You have to go to Paddington Station, by Underground. Okay! Got myself and my lugguge down to the Tube, and I was happy at least to note that compared to how hard it was to carry it all when I first set out a month ago, now I’m much stronger and able to manage it well, even with all the guidebooks and souvenirs I bought.

My sanguinity about this was demolished, however, when I got to Paddington Station. When I got off the Tube I had ten minutes or less to make the train for Oxford. But just as I was heading for the escalator up to the platforms, one of the straps on my canvas Boy Scout backpack broke! No way I could carry another piece in my hands, so I slung it over my shoulder by the other strap and kept running, with the bag full of books and maps bang, bang, banging away at my poor back.

Aaaghh! I hope I can find a place in Oxford to fix it! I’ve depended on that backpack since I bought it in April of 1972!

By dint of total exhaustion I managed to catch the Oxford train. Not a direct route, of course. Stops in Reading. But we got to Oxford uneventfully and in good time, and I boarded a City bus for the final leg of my journey to Coverdale College* and home.

When the bus stopped on Cornmarket, I noticed something, something linked to how I felt earlier today approaching Dover. It was dark, but I could still see the Oxford women young and old waiting there on the pavement to get on. I could see how badly they were dressed, how frowsily and dumpily they arrayed themselves, especially compared with the Frenchwomen I’d seen, urban or provincial.

And I was ashamed. I took it personally. My initial thought was, "Oh, gosh, don’t we dress horribly!" I identified with those woman, dowdy as they were. They were my townswomen, my countrywomen, even, and I wished we could all do better.

But there it is: "We." Damn, I am getting tied up in this place . . .

My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Sixteen

Wednesday, 21 December 1988
Dijon to Autun and back to Dijon

Last night as I was getting ready for bed a scene from Hector’s L’Enfance du Christ kept running through my head. It’s the part in the Flight into Egypt section where Joseph is trying to find lodging for the Holy Family in the town of Sais.

"Ouvrez, ouvrez, secourez-nous!
Laissez-nous reposer chez vous!
Que l’hospitalité sainte soit accordée
À la mère, à l’enfant!
Hélas! De la Judée, nous arrivons à pied!"†

Mon Dieu! did that fit! I about felt like I had come all the way from Paris on foot!

Train to Autun this morning. Was onboard and rolling before it occurred to me to see when I’d have to return.

Oh, great. I had just under two hours there, total, or else not be back in Dijon till 10:00 PM. Not quite.

Day was acting rather like the one when I went to Conques, but the fog settled into Autun and stayed. Meaning I couldn’t follow the steeple to St. Lazare because I couldn’t see it. And the signage wasn’t as good as in some other towns I’ve visited. I knew where the cathedral was supposed to be, generally, and kept walking up and up through the fog. I soon knew I was in trouble--I was exhausted and it was not my arms or back, it was my legs. First sign of rebellion there.

Finally made it and thought I’d come to the wrong church. Hadn’t realized how Gothicized the exterior is, especially the east end. But I proceeded around and down to the west front and, fanfare, please! there it was: Gislebertus hoc fecit. Good.

I was able to spend seventy minutes or so, only, with Maitre Gislebertus’ work, and of course there was no way I could absorb or commit to memory all of it. It must be fun sitting there on Sunday mornings, contemplating those capitals during Mass. Though of course the best ones are towards the side aisles.

Climbed up the tower stairs to the Salle Capitulaires to see the originals of many downstairs. I love that Adoration of the Magi, with the Baby Jesus reaching out to touch the one gift. It’s sweet in all the best ways.

And of course there is the wonderful tympanum, with the otherworldly Christ disposing all and the angels sheltering and aiding the little saved souls, who hide in their skirts like children.

What must it be like to live in a town that has such things in it?!

Milk run back to Dijon. Beaucoup des estudiants again. So odd looking at them. Miniskirts on the girls, long hair on the boys; they could be my crowd sixteen years ago. I feel as if I were caught in a time warp.

Back in Dijon, I found that the train I wanted to take Friday to Bern is booked solid. And that the only possibility of my getting there before 11:00 PM is to get up for one that leaves at 5:58 AM. Ouch.

And that the train and bus connections to Cluny are impossible, considering how eartly I’ll have to get to bed tomorrow night. Never mind the way to Vezelay. It’s only by bus and I could never discover which ones.

So regrettable as it may be, I think tomorrow we are going to punt. We do not want to be the world’s worst bitch with Lukas’s* family.

Took myself to dinner this evening. First time I’d sat down for a meal since Toulouse; about time I did. After wandering around a bit, I came back and ate at the restaurant across the street from the hotel, the St. Jean.‡

75F menu. Had escargot for the first time ever; I recalled Miss Manners says you order escargot for the sake of the garlic butter, but the butter for these had parsley. Oh well. I learned it is expected that one will dip bits of bread into the melted butter and thus get it all.

As for the little boogers themselves, in that juice they’re just another mollusk. I prefer oysters but they’re good enough.

The entree was trout in a wine sauce with whole mustard grains. Waitress did a decent job of deboning the fish, though of course eating trout is always an ossic adventure-- which I always forget.

Service was attentive, almost too much so. Server kept wanting to talk but I disliked feeling that my eating habits were being inspected.

Ordered a demi bottle of white wine with the meal, of the same sort as was in the fish sauce. An aligote, I think it was called. I probably didn’t need 35cl of wine but I drank it anyway. I can’t say I was drunk thereafter but I was glad I only had to cross the street to return to my hotel.

Dessert was pears in cassis juice, aka the omnipresent blackcurrent. Pretty and nice.

So. There, I have Dined.

Back to the room and wrote postcards, including one to Prof. Kay [my Medieval history professor] at KU.

And listened to French radio. They played a new cut of The Band’s "The Weight," which I’ve been singing in my head, among other songs, since Moissac:

"I pulled into Nazareth,
I was feelin’ 'bout half past dead.
Just needed a place where I could lay my head.
‘Hey, mister, can you tell me
Where a man might find a bed?’
He just grinned, shook my hand,
‘No’ was all he said."

Sounds familiar!
____________________________
†Roughly translated, "Please open the door! Help us! Let us come in and rest in your house! For holy hospitality's sake, be kind to a mother and her infant child! Alas! all the way from Judea we have come on foot!"
‡This establishment continued with a good reputation presumably till sometime after the turn of the millenium, and was reopened in 2007 as "Pourquoi Pas?"

I've Given In

. . . To creeping middle age.
I've always hated the look of eyeglass keepers. Nothing says Over the Hill like an eyes-going-bad, where-the-hell-did-I-put-that-pair-of-specs, jawline-jowl-enhancing eyeglass string.

I mean, not even Tom Selleck looked good with them actually on-- which probably is why you can't find a picture of him with his glasses-on-a-cord anywhere but dangling on his sexy chest.

But I've given in. It was either keep my close-up, high-magnification glasses tied to me, or go on looking like a total dafty running round trying to find them. I spent two or three dollars more for the handmade-in-India beaded model-- it reminds me of the hippie-dippy days of my misspent youth.

Hey, that's it! My new eyeglass keepers aren't a sign of advancing senescence! They're returning me to my childhood! I mean, aren't they a lot like that string your mother used to sew on your mittens and thread through your coat sleeves, to keep you from losing them?