fuzzy wuzzy

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear

Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair

Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy was he?

I admit it. 

I'm vain. 

One of the hardest things for me about chemo was being bald. Harder than feeling so weak that walking across the room was a challenge. 

Granted I have two lovely wigs which are prettier than my own hair. 

Not having to blow dry my hair did have its advantages, and I tried to think of it as a silver lining, albeit a tarnished silver one.

People tell me my hair will grow back better than before, but still the image of one friend whose hair did not grow back haunted my 3 a.m. nightmares.

Now I have fuzz on my head. Not a lot, but fuzz nevertheless. Rick can call me Fuzzy even if it is too early to worry about an increased household budget item for shampoo.