Baby's First Haircut

Sometime over the last few weeks, I realized that not just has my hair come back, but it has gotten messy. Messy! And a little curly - practically a Gazley first! Since next week is a big one for me - I've got my "I kicked cancer's ass" Vegas trip and the Avon walk - I want to look my best. So messy hair was right out. My mom came up for the day, and we went to the salon. Mom was there for my very first haircut, so it made sense that she would be there for this one.

I officially have a style now, rather than more or less two inches or so of hair. Amber even showed me how to make it trendy, with product. Getting a haircut felt great. It's a girly thing. A grown-up thing. A regular life thing. I looked in the mirror (once I put my glasses on) and thought, "I could teach in this, I could go out like this, I look GOOD like this!" Put a pair of earrings on, and I look like a girl instead of like my teenage brother.

Most importantly, Mom approves.

Learning (Un)Curve

Zack took me out over the weekend for my first new-shape shopping experience. Cousin Sarah had left "What Not To Wear" for my general edification and enjoyment, and Zack and I carefully studied the "No Boobs" chapter in the car on the way to the store. WNTW suggests halter tops, high necklines, slash necklines, thick sweaters, and tasteful nipple display. (We disagree with nipple display on general principles. One, I don't have any. And two, nipping is rarely tasteful - go ahead and call me old fashioned on this one).

Armed with our new knowledge, we went into the store and picked up short sleeve shirts with every neckline that seemed to fit the guidelines. Our first frightening discovery was that I appear to have moved from a Medium to Extra-Small. Knit tops require a Small, though, because clinging fabric just shows off my ribcage. One of my Thai friends in Bangkok used to tell stories of her US shopping experiences, and the violence of the competition over the coveted XS merchandise. She fought dirty! With elbows! I am in deep trouble.

Zack and I treated this outing as experimental research. I would go in the dressing room, then come out and we'd discuss the merits of each neckline/shirt. Our scholarly debate seemed to amuse various store patrons, but I found (a bit to my surprise) that I just didn't feel like explaining 'I had cancer, a new body shape, etc.' I was having fun.

Overall, we proved the WNTW principles. Halter tops work in theory, as long as I don't care about the port-a-cath scar being flashed (still more tasteful than nipples). Square necks and high crew necks work well, and patterns help disguise the great plain of my chest. Cap sleeves suit well, but 3/4 sleeves emphasize the out-of-proportion chest to waist ratio. V-necks and scoop necks (my entire summer wardrobe)look really silly.

Our discoveries stretched beyond the WNTW coaching. Shirts with little pockets right where boobs go? Surprisingly in. Shirts with darts to accommodate boobs? Out. Way out. Shirts I've NEVER been able to wear - the ones with ruching at a square neck, or ruffles down the front? In. (Though we didn't purchase any. As Zack howled in front of everyone near the fitting room, "it works but it's SO UGLY!" No matter my shape, melon will never be my color.) Those evil shirts with the empire waist and the band across the front? Turns out that it wasn't my boobs that prohibited my wearing them, but my height. Without boobs to hold the shirt in place, the band rode up and sat just under my armpits like an old man's waistband. Hilariously, hugely out.

We did find one shirt that worked beautifully. I even turned a head in the fitting room. Black, mandarin collar, double buttons down the front, linen. Zack cheered when I came out in it. We high-fived at our discovery, then looked at the tags. $80, dry clean only. Sigh. Some things never change.

On Shirts

I'm grappling with the new truth about my physical self: I don't have breasts anymore. I can put my hands against my chest and feel all of my ribs. When I looked down at my toes in the shower, the ends of my rib cage stuck out farther than any other part of me. It is too strange to be shocking, and too shocking to be scary, and too scary to be sad. I keep finding my hands stealing along my ribs, as if I could find my breasts there by accident. I look incredibly tiny now, with my little pixie hair and just my narrow ribcage. The woman who altered my wedding dress decided I must be English, because I have such big boobs and a narrow little ribcage. Had. My shirts hang straight down, now.

Even after everything I've been through this year, I never hated my breasts. Lots of women with breast cancer say they want them chopped off, or call them the evil twins, or just pour hate into them. I couldn't hate them, because they were a part of me - a visible, tangible, obvious part. Not terribly useful, and with a rotten set of instructions, but mine.

I wore my favorite shirt of all time to the hospital on Thursday. That shirt has been dancing in Chicago and New York, on summer dates with Zack, worn under jackets to work and over tight jeans to parties. It fit my curves just so, and I always felt beautiful when I wore it. It is missing a button, and the edges are frayed, and it doesn't have the same give that it used to. In fact, it has gotten pretty worn out. So, really, no-one would know but me that I look beautiful in that shirt.

I know that in a few days I'll be feeling better, and it will be time to change out of my jammies and into regular clothes. That will probably be when the strangeness starts to creep into the everyday. When nothing fits right, and my reflection in the mirror doesn't match what I imagine it should be. When I look around at other women and see curves in all the right places but don't have them myself.

I just have to remember that I know I am beautiful, even if what everyone else sees is just a ratty old shirt.