THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE MENSTRUAL PAINTING

Chemo is pretty shitty. But, as Brian suggests, we should always look on the bright side. So here's my list. 

Bad: Your hair falls out. Good: Brazilians are free. 

Bad: You feel so sick you can't get out of bed. Good: The Jodi Arias trial is taking forever. 

Bad: You can't use Tampax. Good: You can make period paintings on your pads for fun. I recreated Starry Starry Night in red yesterday, considering selling it on Ebay. 

Bad: You can't get a pedicure or a manicure. Good: You don't have to deal with your brutally honest pedicurist: "What's wrong? You look sick." "Why you have no hair? No look good." 

Bad: You neglect your husband. Good: He dotes on you. 

Bad: You neglect your children. Good: You don't have to go to talent night at the school. 

Bad: You can't drink alcohol. Good: You'll be a cheap date when you're done. 

Bad: You can't taste food. Good: Kate Moss said "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels." And this is your chance to see if it's true. 

Bad: People look at you with pity. Good: You can mess with them by coughing in the elevator. 

Bad: Your hair falls out as you type. Good: It gives you something to type about. 

I DIGIS YOUR WIGIS

I have a very dear friend (who has had his own battles with cancer but that's his story) we call Wigis. When he was at school it was 'The thing' to add 'is' to every word. sois youis wouldis talkis likeis thesis. Wig (that's what we call him now) had a lot of hair and his friends would tease him that it looked like a wig. So it became "I digis your wigis." And, as names do, it stuck. One of the first thoughts that popped into my head when I found out I would lose my hair was; "I wonder if I'll digis my wigis?"

I have already decided to shave my head. The slow, chernobyl-like fallout would be too devastating for me to endure. And those head ice-caps sound like medieval, ice-cream headache induced torture. I haven't worked out if I'll have the guts for rock bald ala Robin Roberts, wear one of those cap wrap things that come in every color but attractive, or shall I get myself a wigis. 

I broke the Chemo news to my daughters: age 7 going on 30 and 11 going on: "Please don't embarrass me showing up at school bald, please, please, please." They unanimously decided I should don a day-goo Nicki Minaj wig. As if Chemo wasn't enough, i should look like a clown? I went onto the internet to Google wigs. Turns out there are lots of wigs out there and Beyonce's hair is as real as her Obama inauguration anthem. Browsing through wig after wig I found a few I could wear. I could go long, thick, sexy and look like an anemic, buttless Kardashian. According to numerous websites I can look like any celebrity I choose. Turns out all I have to do to look like a Victoria's Secret super model is don a Heidi Klum wig. If only I'd known this years ago. I can go short, medium, spiked, curly or a style I have always lusted after: dead straight. I have options. I may end up with a wigis I digis.