Bzzzzz

Well, it's official.  I'm officially bald.  On Saturday, June 28, 2008, surrounded by a small entourage (ok, so I invited three friends, one of which is a professional photographer), I went under the clippers.  Now one might think that a bilateral mastectomy would be much scarier than a pair of shears, but to a girl who has always flipped, curled and whirled her long locks, the head shave is, well, completely and absolutely NERVE WRACKING!!!  Ok, ok, I admit, going under the real knife is scarier, but to a person living with cancer, the loss of hair is the most visible reminder that you are sick, not only to the patient, but also to the rest of the world.  Basically, it's like getting on a megaphone and announcing, "Hello everyone, everyone, everyone (those are echoes), in case you were wondering why I occasionally walk slow, sometimes look green and am often losing my keys, I have cancer, cancer, cancer (more echoes).  Hope you enjoy the show!!!"  To that end, my friend Memphis (I am giving everyone nicknames to protect the innocent) and I decided to medicate ourselves with Mimosas, before being joined by Curly at FACE Stockholm (the makeup boutique), where Mademoiselle FACE (the makeup artist) caked on the makeup as she wondered why any self-respecting Manhattanite above 14th street would go and shave their head.  She kindly waved her makeover fee after announcing to all her customers that I was shaving my head, which is one of the many benefits of having the big C.  Yes, get the big C and you too can get free makeovers, makeunders, makeup and the occasional tears from your friendly skincare specialist (will explain in another post).  The big C has even gotten me a free facial. :)  Anyway, I digress.  So once I was officially beautified (i.e. spackled and frosted with 10 layers of makeup in order to get that natural look), my girls and I were joined by Paparazzi and we headed to the wig salon.  The moment had officially come.  After Paparazzi very professionally shot some before pictures, the clippers starting buzzing toward my head as I closed my eyes and felt the first row of hair fall off to the floor.  I was about to tear up, when Curly or Memphis (don't remember who said this) exclaimed "Dalia, you would make the best punk rocker!!!"  After that, the punk rocker that's been sleeping inside me my whole life, exploded out of me, mugging to the camera with a mohawk, and then just bangs, and finally....are you ready....TOTALLY BALD!  Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I even did the Billy Idol lip curl (first introduced into rock by Elvis Presley) with rock and roll hands.  Then, as quickly as my inner punk-rocker emerged, the WigMaster subdued it by putting on what he calls the Rolls Royce of wigs.  Suddenly, within seconds, I looked like myself again, at which point my inner diva unveiled herself and started posing for Paparazzi like a true tabloid queen.  We even took pictures outside in front of the Time Warner Center, which made me feel like a true star.  Well, at least some people on the street thought I was someone important due to Paparazzi's fancy camera and big flash.  Unfortunately they were sorely disappointed when they walked by to get get the closer look and found out it was just me.  After that, I just turned back into me, wig and all, and escaped the rain by going to a movie.  When I got home, I took off the magic wig and hung out for the first time as just DT without hair.  The truth is, it's not so bad.  My head is cooler, don't get hair in my eyes, and my bathroom is a lot cleaner now. Up top is a glimpse of my baldy self after playing with my Wii Fit (courtesy of the A Team and D), so please excuse the outfit.  As soon as I have the pics from Paparazzi, I'll make sure you get to see those too.  Thanks again for reading.

Straight from the trenches,

DT