Peruke Yuke....

[The list to the left is courtesy of Georgetown University Hospital's Oncology Department. The image of the bust with the solitary stare is a fragment of a photograph courtesy of www.stefpix.com.]


"I can feel my hair...dying," Daniela grimaced earlier today as she ran her hands, in slow motion, up along the sides of her face. Eight fingers parked atop the parietal lobe as she massaged her scalp. Thumbs, manicured mud flaps, caressed her ears as her face contorted in a hybrid gesture...part hesitant scowl, part confident grin...a caricature of a frantic phrenologist in self-diagnosis mode. "I wanted to go to the wig shop today" she confessed, "I called them, but they are closed Sunday, Monday, Tuesday."

Thirteen years ago, she had a wig. I can't remember if she bought it or if it was a gift from a friend, or her parents. To the best of my recollection, she never wore it. So her interest in the wig caught me off guard. I know it is her decision. And trust me, if she wanted to wear a turban made of tea bags, or sport a sombrero made of sea kelp, I would encourage her (...while holding my breath). I just can't separate the image of a wig from its styrofoam perch...faceless, frozen, lightweight, listless. Even the more realistic mannequin-style perches have a soulless gaze that saddens me.

I can still recall the last chemotherapy malaise and how her fringes molted away. Those turquoise eyes still managed to overshadow the pallor...emitting a scintillating sense of self-assurance. Unlike the first wave a decade or so ago, this second iteration of chemotherapy imports a nauseating duality, the immediate assault (the vertigo and its effect on her senses, taste and smell) and the recall (resurrected emotions...indexical symbols intensifying the experience). Most of her favorite foods frighten her, but today she cheerfully consumed a serving of french fries. She allowed me this digital glimpse...

Maybe all the waffling about the wig has a tactical purpose. The presence of options--a wig, a scarf, a hat, a crew cut, a shave--seems to crochet a cloak of comfort, a comforting delay. These days her body and its biochemical machinations are the gears of a new temporal grammar. She listens. She anticipates. This new clock...when its hands strike the floor, or the pillow, or the shower drain...will compel her to make a choice.

In the meantime, she combs other emotions while lounging in bed...the addictions of a political junkie riveted by this evenings political debates streaming live from South Carolina onto her computer...presidential candidates pulling at each others hair...split personalities, split infinitives, and split ends, of another sort.