Call the f**king salon…how hard can it be?!

I have a wig fitting on Monday afternoon and I’m sure the best thing to do is have my hair cropped on Monday morning. If I do that the wigs will sit better, I’ll be able to put them on more easily and it’s only one cut away from shaved. And if I’m honest, my hair is in a pretty bad state of abuse at the moment so even under usual circumstances a bloody good shortening (that’s 4 or 5 inches in my world) would be in order.

There’s a hairdresser next door to the wig shop (I like the idea of dashing from one door to the next under a hoodie) but it doesn’t open on Mondays and I don’t possess enough celebrity sway to make it happen. There’s another hairdresser a few doors away (a dash of a few doors will be just about acceptable) but I just can’t make the ‘phone call.  I have the number, I have my ‘phone, I have tears streaming down my face.

I know to all you people with hair, long or short or shaved through choice this may seem ridiculous. Bald or dead? Um…that’s a no brainer. But I’m a girl (albeit an old one) and girls are meant to have hair and this girl always has long hair. And having lovely, long hair makes me feel lovely and having no hair and no eyelashes and no eyebrows and no left breast and a sore mouth and sore eyes and aching joints and numbness and so many other rubbish chemo side effects is going to make me feel like absolute f**king sh*t.

But it’s better than being dead and without treatment that’s what I’ll be. So, the sensible thing to do is make the call to the hairdresser. I have the number, I have my ‘phone, I have tears streaming down my face…

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