Two steps forward - Eight backward

This was a banner week for me. I went hatless and wore make-up for the first time in more months than I could remember. My neuropathy symptoms seemed to diminish. I felt good. I walked to lunch. Sleeping seemed better. Then I finished my steroids.

Last Saturday I was restless and anxious to jump start my life. This Saturday I was annoyed that I'd made an appointment at the hair dressers at the crack of 10 a.m. But I made it. Not to get my hair done, but to have my face waxed. Unfortunately, the growth of hair on my head signaled the return of my beard and mustache. So I sat patiently having the facial hair ripped from my face trying to figure a way it could be transplanted to my scalp. (Incidentally, my hairdresser is from Saudi so this is what I think of when they talk about Middle Eastern terrorism.)

My friend and I had a discussion recently. She mentioned that she wouldn't go out without doing her hair and makeup. What if Mr. Right was at the grocery store and overlooked her because she'd forgotten her mascara? I, on the other hand, walked into the grocery store after my appointment with red blotchy skin, a black eye, and my chemo-chic hairdo. And here's the funny thing. I got hit on. OK, it was the meat counter guy who has no front teeth, wears a hair net, and is named Bubba, but he hinted about going out for Buffalo wings. I didn't catch the hint.

I think I got off the point. I think I started off whining about not feeling so well, but why talk about pain and suffering when you can have a laugh at my expense.

After all, that's what friends are for.