A couple of years ago, I had an encounter in the women’s change room of our local pool that was particularly embarrassing. By embarrassing, I mean a top-of-the-line face-palm cringe fest where I seriously hoped the ground beneath my feet would instantaneously open up and suck me into a vortex.
This particular disaster unfolded while I was busy trying to clothe two of my three children after a swim. It involved a big, busty naked lady and my then four year-old son.
Mange has struck crisis levels, kids. It’s time for action.
There isn’t much on this horrid breast cancer journey that I get to take control of, but this is one little thing I can.
Here’s to being ‘Master of my hair(loss) Domain’!
If I had to think of a metaphor for the way I feel most days, it would be treading water: trying to keep my head above the water line, struggling to keep carrying on as normal, while my legs make frantic circles below, unseen. Most of the time I manage to do this, but the unseen struggle continues. On the outside I can seem strong, upbeat and at times even funny, but inside, I am riding daily waves of turmoil. Still, I am swimming, not sinking.