A Posh Shop in Westport

A week after you were diagnosed with breast cancer, you walked into a posh shop in Westport, Connecticut—the kind where your shoes sink deep into plush carpeting and gentle music graces the background. When you entered, your heart was pounding. You were afraid that by simply walking in you stood out—an obvious, though invisible, imperfection inside you was certain to be detected.

But the store owner, a thirtyish woman, with dark hair and eyes, was unfazed by your entry. She simply smiled and said hello.

You looked around with your friend Molly, who had accompanied you for moral support. Short mannequin heads with big hair were everywhere, one after the other, in probably 200 different shades of brown, blonde, black, and red.

For a moment you thought about surprising Mike, Dana, and Scott by coming home a glamorous blonde or maybe a redhead. Instead, you began to search for a wig that matched your own frosted brown.

Molly helped you try one on. Your heart sank.

“It looks so much like—a wig,” you told Molly.

“I know. It just seems like so much hair,” she said.

The store owner intervened at just the right moment. She assured you that they did, in fact, have hundreds of shades so they would certainly find one to match your color perfectly. Then, a hairdresser would cut the wig to exactly match your hairstyle so, after you lost your hair from chemo, you would continue to look just like—you.

She encouraged you to pick out as many beautiful or fun scarves and hats as you wanted. The cost of the hats, scarves, and wig would be covered by insurance as medical prostheses.

Amazed, you and Molly actually began to have fun. You tried on so many things and eventually picked out a baseball cap, a silk scarf long enough to wrap around your head three times, and a wonderful straw beach hat with a wide brim.

You were ready to face losing your hair.

It happened at your mother’s house. The kids were inside. You and your mom were lying in the back yard on chaise lounges, feeling the summer sun on your faces, murmuring in conversation. You reached up and scratched your head. A clump of hair came out. You did it again. Another clump.

Your mom hurried inside returning with a plastic zip lock bag. Together, you filled it. When your hair was half gone, you called the kids to come outside and see you so they could get used to the transition. They didn’t think you looked too bad. You and your mom continued to pluck out your hair until you looked like a fuzzy baby bird.

Finally, your mother took a step back, looked at you, and said, “I wonder how many other mothers and daughters are doing this today.”