Regrowth V

Since I last provided an update on the subject, I can confirm that my head is still producing coils. Many, many coils. Several coils of brown hair. Said coils, continue to grow outwards instead of downwards. As I am talking about myself, I do not need to be polite, but if I was being polite, I would say that my current ‘do has ‘volume’. If I was not being polite, I would say that it is a bushy mess that is nice to touch. One might be mistaken for thinking I have a perm. People have mistaken what is going on on top of my head as a perm. It is no perm. It is all natural, if you can say that something caused by chemotherapy, is natural.

I am still adopting the hair growth policy of Leave It Be. It will fall out at some point again, so I might as well use this time to experiment for the next time. All I know is that these curls cannot be styled, they cannot be blow dried. All they want is conditioner and liberal amounts of oil.

The coily curls are like Marmite, you either love it or you hate it. People give unsolicited opinions about it. They do it over lunch, having a drink, on the 7s and on the street.

Wow.

It’s cool.

Perhaps you should go to a hairdressers.

Gosh it is curly.

Can I touch it?

You might need to trim the back.

Clearly, I prefer one type of comment over the other, but the world does not only smell of roses, just look at myeloma.

It needs no more introduction. Birds could live in it.

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After spending an afternoon honouring the late, great Harold Ramis, I think personally think my hair is reminiscent of this;

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I am yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing.

EJB x

Separates

You know that feeling when you wake up knowing exactly what you are going to wear that day and said outfit is going to be the best outfit you have ever worn in your life and not only that, it will be the best outfit anybody else has ever seen? Well, that is exactly how I felt up opening my eyes this morning. I was going to wear a dress and I was going to look hot. H-O-T hot. I was very excited and pleased to be giving this gift to the world.

And then I remembered…

Today was a day I had to wear separates. The Medically Trained People made it so. Not only did I have to wear separates, but I also had to wear something with an elasticated waist. It was at that point I knew the day was going to be a let down.* I had not planned for this when my eyes were closed. I was going to have to look daggy. I was also going to have to have a bone marrow biopsy. My outfit upset me more.

I know it is a price one has to pay on Biopsy Day, at least on Velcade Days I do not have to lower my being to elasticated and ‘comfy’, I just begrudge it.

Nobody warns you when they tell you everything else about it, that myeloma dictates your dress, even, occasionally, forcing one to become sartorially challenged. At least once a fortnight, I dress for myeloma and not for me. Imagine that. It has been 17 months, and still, every time it happens, the few times it happens you understand, it smarts. It really smarts.

Oh, and I really cannot believe that it has been six months and four days since my transplant.

EJB x

* except for the fact that I was accompanied to my biopsy by two fine ladies and a foetus, and had a scone, I love scones.

Go See…

Daily photo from Cairo/Giza
and in the lower right corner, links to Daily Photo blogs from other cities.
http://www.20×200.com/
Original art and short-run prints by new and established artists and photographers, starting at $20!  Many sell out quickly; if you love it, buy it.
http://www.gloriouswallstickers.com/
Mad cool wall stickers. House plants and goldfish that won’t die, the chandelier you covet. My personal favorite? Kitsch, of course.

Things I Found #4: Bring Me Calvin Klein’s Head on a Stick

Another essay from the last writing class has bubbled to the surface. This dates me terribly, because Calvin Klein has gone from avant-garde, enfant terrible, to a “mature” designer considered to be a classic stylist. But when he first started making headlines, he gave me headaches.
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Am I the only person who feels that Calvin Klein is responsible for the decline and fall of Western civilization? Maybe I just resent him because he officially stamped my passport into Old Farthood.

I was vaguely aware that Calvin Klein’s name was appearing on people’s asses in the first wave of something called Designer Jeans. (Previously there were only Levi’s and, if you didn’t know any better, Wranglers.) Designer Jeans were meant to look as though they had been airbrushed onto your body, and the trendoids, male and female, began cramming themselves into pants two sizes too small, trying to look blasé and aloof although they were also bug-eyed and breathless.

I wasn’t too alarmed. I was still a renegade, unwilling to give up my buttery soft, faded-to-baby-blue Levi’s for the crisp, navy full-length trusses called designer jeans.

But Calvin wasn’t happy just being a prestigious tush flag. A cultural visionary, Cal knew we were right there on the cusp of becoming a nation of sheep, eager to jump on the bandwagon of any ludicrous trend that two or three insecure suck-ups now pronounced Officially Cool. Calvin decided the time was right to branch out, and burst into my consciousness with commercials for a perfume called Obsession.

Obsession! Calvin Klein wanted us to smell like a personality disorder, a state of mental unbalance. “He broke my heart so I slashed his tires and burned down his house. Obsession.” And I just didn’t get it. I was no longer Talking the Talk.

Next was Infinity. Cal thought we should smell like mathematical concepts promoted by glassy-eyed anorexics, like Kate “I only eat tiny bits of” Moss. And I realized I was completely clueless about this campaign, too. I was once the drum majorette for hip, anti-establishment thinking and behavior, the poster girl for non-conformity. Now I sounded and felt like my parents: “What are they talking about?”

I grew up with Evening in Paris, Joy, Chanel, and for naughty girls, Tabu. And the models smiled, or at least offered a smoldering come-hither look. Wouldn’t you want to sell perfume — a luxury item — with images of style, glamour, allure, success, romance? But no, here was Cal peddling his wares with greasy-haired scowling waifs and apparently that’s what we wanted, because we made him a gazillionaire!

The new campaign was for something called CK1, an apparently transgendered scent with the brilliantly succinct catch-phrase, “Just be.”
Just be? Come on! What’s the alternative? Just don’t be? I guess if you just not be, you be dead, and it wouldn’t much matter what you smell like.

Maybe Cal has forged a bold path of marketing strategies into the obtuse, the obscure, the downright silly. If that’s the case, if I’ve finally “gotten it,” I’d like to offer a few suggestions for his next perfumes:
Yo, I din’t do it. Bring me some smokes.
Calvin Klein’s … INCARCERATION.
No, I’m full, really. Be right back.
Calvin Klein’s… BULIMIA.
Party like you mean it. Jimi and Janis. Yeah, dude.
Calvin Klein’s … HEROIN.
Fabulous. Gotta take this call, babe. Ciao.
Calvin Klein’s…SUPERFICIAL

I think I just launched a new marketing career! Do I look younger? Wait a minute – how about when I scowl?

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Things I Found #1
Things I Found #2
Things I Found #3