Now that I’m close to what the illustrious Warren G. Harding once called “a return to normalcy,” I have the opportunity to reflect on how I’ve changed—and what I’ve learned—lo these past five months. One of the biggest changes I’ve experienced has been in my appearance. I started out with a full head of rich, flowing hair. Then I was completely bald. Now my hair is slowly growing back. It’s not quite as thick as before (that takes time), but it’s definitely returning. It is also—and many people can vouch for this—baby soft. I recommend feeling it. (It’s so choice).
Also, I’m now stick thin. If you saw me before I started treatment—or even before I had surgery—you know that I was already as thin as a stick. So I guess now I’m as thin as a stick that lost twenty pounds.
When my treatment started, my biggest fear was losing my hair. As a man who has always prided himself on his appearance, the idea of suddenly going bald was mortifying. But by the time I actually lost my hair, I was too sick to really notice.
It’s only now that I’m on the mend that I’ve started looking in the mirror each day, waiting for a face I used to recognize to return.
But as it is written in the Bible, “Pride goeth before destruction; and a haughty spirit before a fall.” In the past, I’ve been accused once or twice of the sin of pride (or vanity, if you prefer). I’m proud to report that despite the toll these months have taken on me, I haven’t forsaken that vanity. But I’m also proud to report that I’ve learned something about the limits of pride.
That’s why I’m currently wearing green and white plaid pajama-pants adorned with little hearts. And an extremely baggy, navy-blue Hawaiian shirt with brilliantly colored pictures of flowers and tropical drinks. With a sensitive 12-inch scar that runs from my sternum to my pelvis, any clothing that actually fits me is too uncomfortable to wear. So this is my outfit. Each day I walk the streets, with my dark, slightly scruffy beard and short hair, and this outfit that would blind even the heartiest of fashionistas. And I complete the ensemble with flip-flops or a pair of slip-on white sneakers (a style very popular with Russian mobsters).
So that’s the limit of pride. I look like a 75-year-old retiree preparing for the early-bird special. They say time heals all wounds. Hopefully it heals all wardrobes too.
