LEST there is any doubt as to the power words yield, I am today eating a bit of crow. It does not taste much like chicken.
It is so very easy to throw out words casually, to say such things as "I would shave my head for this role if it had to be done" when I think there's no danger that those words would stick to the wall.
But they have stuck to the wall. Quite soundly. And I am now accountable to them. This afternoon I am reporting to the costume shop to have my head shaved for the play.
Beware of your words-- they never forget. And when you least expect them, they come home like unemployed children for extended stays.
I'm trying to turn this surreal, Brechtean experience into something useful, like an extended blog life. I think I raced through all the stages of grief in about two hours last night, so now I'm a bit in a numb state, which is probably where I should be until the deed is done. But eventually I'll catch up on my sleep, probably long before my hair grows out, so I need more words to stick up on the wall to get me through.
It IS just hair. I get that-- intellectually. My fear is grounded in vanity-- I get that. To continue pursuing the makeup route will be very, very detrimental to me, as I have discovered how much spirit gum and acetone can burn the skin of the face and neck. Plus, looking like an alien bursting through someone else's skin is most definitely NOT the look we want. I get it. I get it.
But I'm still flirting with a panic attack.
For those who have lost or are losing their hair because of chemotherapy, my deepest apologies for the vanity and pity-party tone of this piece. I cannot imagine your struggle. But I will be sending my prayers out with each piece of hair that falls on the floor today.