Cancer. It’s a scary-ass word. This six-letter diagnosis symbolizes fear and pain for many of us. It most certainly brings overwhelming feelings of doubt. At the same time, until we find a cure, there will always exist stories of hope and great courage.
A bit over a year ago, a very close friend of mine revealed to me that she had cancer. There were tears. Just before she started her first round of chemotherapy I decided to shave my head to let her know I had her back.
Ok, I’m done being mushy.
A few days after my big cut, I made my way to the gym as per usual. As I walked along, I silently scolded myself for how damned cold my frigging head was. The last time I was bald, I was chilling inside someone else’s body.
I better look like this if I am ever bald again. Shit, no wonder babies are fucking screaming bloody murder when they’re born. Who in their right mind would want to be yanked into the freezing-ass world with no hair?! No one. That’s who.
This was my approximate level of discomfort towards the cold against my naked head: somewhere between failing a big test and shitting my pants in public. I stopped at an intersection and waited for the walk signal. A few other people were also waiting with me; the little old lady I noticed the most because she was so adorably short. Suddenly I heard a woman’s voice call out to me over my music:
I turned to cast my gaze upon a middle-aged woman with hair so disheveled I could have sworn her parents violently beat her every time she tried to use a comb. I looked at her, slightly confused as to if she was even talking to me.
“Yes, you! Don‘t judge me on how I look! I mean, look at you! You’re bald!”
Strange, I’m pretty sure that before she started screaming like a siren on acid, I was not even aware of her clearly sad existence. Furthermore, I did not ask for her mouth to come up into my business, especially to tell me shit I already know about myself. She must have thought she was the great Sherlock Holmes with that “discovery”, accusing me of being sans hair.
Really, asshat? You can’t even manage to run a rake through your bird’s nest of a head but you’re going to talk to me about how I shaved my hair? Carry on with your nonsense. One day you’re going to open your mouth to the wrong person and have all your teeth knocked out.
I could psycho-analyse the shit out of this random encounter. I could delve into all sorts of reasons as to why this woman would project her fool insecurities onto me. I could write my thesis on why dumbasses think it’s appropriate to approach me at any moment in time. I won’t, though. I’ve attributed this fuckery to her depraved life experience. Also, crazies from Toronto always shout ignorant shit.