So here we are, exactly one year on from the cancer diagnosis. We didn’t celebrate (do we ever?) but of course it has me thinking. 12 whole months given over to breast cancer and its barbaric treatments. I certainly didn’t predict it would take so long and, of course, I naively assumed finished meant over and done with. No chance of that. I already have my appointment for a mammogram in 4 weeks’ time, 12 months after my mastectomy. I can’t imagine any rogue cells could have survived the onslaught of chemotherapy and radiotherapy but who knows. I guess I will approach these annual checks with a degree of pessimism, even fear, as I wait for the results. However, how can anyone have faith in the accuracy of a mammogram when my 2018 routine check was deemed to be clear? At that stage, I must have had two tumours and a few lymph nodes infected.
So, onto the title. Chemo-curl has struck with a vengeance. I remember my mum used to have these vicious hair thingies that created waves. David and I used to play with them and trap our fingers inside. They looked like a dark version of Jaws, only we didn’t yet know that! The end product was this kind of thing:
Now I’ve been struck. Hair that lies to the left now grows to the right. Hair that falls down now grows upwards. I have waves across the back of my head and curls round my ears. I have a Tintin on the top of my head: a wave that then curls upwards. I have to keep running my hands through my hair to keep a casual mussed look instead of a total prat look lol.
Here’s the proof:
I know it’s vanity but I feel like a kid again, too aware of what’s not right about my appearance. Only aware, I don’t care. I’m more amused than anything and fortunately it feels gorgeous, just like stroking Kiera’s Maisie! A cockerpoo - horrid name for such a cute dog.
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