56: 100 Days in Omaha
At the risk of publishing yet another self-portrait (but why hesitate? the blog, after all, is the optimal self-portrait, flattering or disparaging), I thought I’d mention hairlessness. As we all know by now, chemotherapy makes you bald. We wear the pirate kerchief, the battered baseball cap or the wig as a rule, and not just in vanity. Being bald means being cold. All the time.
What I didn’t appreciate — and doctors don’t necessarily warn you about this — is that you will be bald everywhere. Yes, even there. So not only is your head cold, but the rest of you has to be wrapped up too whether you are inside or out. The slightest exposure of bare, hairless skin is like having a thermometer hooked up to a Jimi Hendrix reverb pedal and a Fender amp.
You can imagine then that as the chemicals wear off and hair begins to reappear, there’s a relief, a renewed confidence in the natural cycle of beardedness and shaving. This is the rebarbative Mr. Turnbull.
