A Very Three's Company Christmas Eve

I've come to realize that with the exception of my soft hooded knit wrap, I just don't like things on my head.  I was never a hat person and it doesn't matter how loose I adjust a cap, it feels as though everything squeezes my head like an orange in an old fashioned juicer.  I'll wear a hat for warmth if I'm out, and rip it off of my thinning head the minute I step foot in the car or house.  My wig has been in a plastic ziptop bag since I purchased it, removed only to jokingly model for friends and family, then promptly returned to the sealed pouch.  The more I would take it out and display it, the more I realized I didn't care for the whole idea of it.  I knew for Christmas Eve however, I'd have to put my big girl pants on and wear the "Aunt Millie" wig. 

My brother made an appeal and Lou and I agreed that we wouldn't share my illness with his son until after Christmas.  Up until this point, there was no reason to say anything.  Did my 9 year old nephew need to know his Aunt was having a hysterectomy and would skydive into menopause back in May?  No.  But we agree, with my changing appearance, he's entitled to some information. 

Not unlike a lot of kids, our nephew has always been one keen observer.  When he was 4, nephew and his dad visited our always dapper, now late, Great Uncle Tony, who may have been caught off guard by their earlier than expected visit.   Nephew took one look at Uncle Tony and asked him where his teeth were.  When Uncle Tony replied "They're in the bathroom", my brother's mini-me asked Uncle Tony to go into the bathroom and put his teeth in his mouth.  Want to know if those pants make you look fat?  Ask him, he'll gently tell you.  Nephew is his father's son.  He'll bust your chops if you let him, he's quick with a joke, and he's a love who takes a lot to heart, quietly carrying the burdens of those around him.  And now, after years of shoulder length brown hair, I'm supposed to parade around in front of him and try to pass off a reddish brown old lady wig, tapered to my neck, as my own hair to essentially hide my chemo crew cut.  Knowing him, he'd sooner accept my honest thin pixie hair.  Goodness gracious.  Whatever I've gotten myself into, can I be Chrissy Snow? 

There are two stiff tabs in the back of the wig at the nape of the neck and one on either side, like sideburns, to help guide the wearer where certain points should sit on the head.  Convenient and irritating.  Lou and I arrived at my parents house early so Mom and I could attempt to style the wig.  Mom likes big hair.  I like flat hair.  "Jo, put that bottle if hair spray down!"  A little hair tucked behind the ears, a few strands around my cheeks and it was almost passable in dim light.  No matter how much I wrestled with my conscious, it was too late.  My brother's family was now at the door and Jack Tripper was ready to let them in.  I had the wig on for all of 20 minutes and my scalp was already screaming for air and a scratch.

I made sure to greet my nephew with a standing hug out of fear the wig would shift if he got near my neck.  As soon as I sat down, he glanced at my head and then directly into my eyes before he took his seat across the living room. "The jig is up! He knows!" I thought.  My brother would later tell me his son commented flatly "Aunt Amy has a new hairstyle."  My brother didn't ask if nephew liked the "new" doo, but I can tell by his choice of words nephew snubbed his nose at it.

For the rest of the day, every time my nephew turned his head, I was either scratching or re-adjusting the wig to make sure the guide points were in its place.  I'd catch my sister-in-law's eyes while giving the wig a shift and laugh. Lou would spot me making quick adjustments and give me the "You're making it worse" look from across the room.  I felt a little tired and wanted to nap on the recliner, but couldn't help envision shifting my head in the high back chair and popping the wig off in mid-snore.  I can rest later.

By dinner my scalp was on fire.  I started fantasizing about the soft cap that could have sat comfortably underneath the wig...had I remember to order it.  If etiquette allowed, I would have tucked my fork under the wig and had at it. 

As desert ended, with less than an hour to go before he had to leave, nephew stood at the end of the table, looked me square in the eyes and asked me "Are you sick?".  My heart dropped into the pit of my stomach.  My voice happened to be a little hoarse and I simply replied "Yes".  Was this the start of an interrogation?  Fortunately, it wasn't.  He just accepted the answer and walked away.  Lou put his arm around me and encouraged me to keep it together.  He could tell the pressure of carrying on this charade for 4 hours was eating away at me. 

I'll ask for all to refrain from judgment on this entry (no judgments on this blog in any event).  Nephew is at a stage in life where he just stopped believing in Santa Claus and he's learning that life's not fair.  Oh, to be 9 again...