Wigs, as a rule, aren't comfortable. But ever since I lost the little cotton skullcap that goes under mine, the thing's surprisingly more comfortable--my sharp gray hair stubbles function like velcro. Still, I don't wear my wig at home. If I know the Amazon delivery guy is ringing the doorbell, I quickly don one of my Smurf caps. If it's just one of my children, I don't. They've gotten used to the sight of Mom-with-military-buzz.
Somehow, I thought one of my kids had forgotten his or her key when I answered the door one evening around six. There stood one of my older son's friends, his eyebrows suddenly up, eyes popping, mouth in a classic "O." No doubt about it. The kid was in shock. So I was, actually, having made feeble plans to keep breast cancer a secret.
"Oh," I said. Then, overly brightly, "Hello!" In came the kid. As I directed him to my son, I explained, "This is my chemotherapy head, but don't tell anyone."
"It's--ahhh, okay!" gasped the kid.
"Normally, I wear a wig."
"It's--really--okay!" he added.
Today we're visiting friends in Bavaria, and I woke up in the middle of the night to use the facilities. Unexpectedly, the girlfriend of our host's son was emerging from the bathroom just as I entered.
"Oh, hello! It's just me," I said with manic cheer.
She smiled. Girls understand better, without having things explained.