Aren’t We All Just Little Birds …

… dancing for our suppers?  Don’t we all skitter in and out, looking for crumbs or worms or a nice arugula salad with those little cherry tomatoes, some crisp Feta sprinkled over the top and a splash of low-fat vinaigrette?  Don’t we all just want to avoid the claws of the cat and leave evidence of our existence on the hood of parked cars?  Don’t we all love to congregate, our toes curled around telephone wires, chirping away with one another?  Aren’t we all just these little birds?

That’s what I was thinking as the doctor told me yesterday that, yes, I’m losing my hair.  Alopecia, he called it. Right smack on the top of my head.


So I’m losing my hair.  My feathers.


Okay, no panic … I’ve been bald before.  There was that time when I was a baby and my hair was all rubbed off the back of my head because babies do that.  Then there was the time I had brain surgery and my entire head was shaved.  Then there was the time I was going to show support for my best friend who had cancer and I offered to shave my head so we’d match during her chemo.  She said she’d never speak to me again if I was stupid enough to shave my head just because SHE was sick.  I said I’d just be spiritually bald then.  She liked that.  So, I’ll give that a half point for good intentions.

Ahhh … Hairless.  Featherless.  What’s a bird to do?

It’s all okay.  Because aren’t we all just little birds doing the best we can with what we have when we have it?  After a glass of wine and a good cry, I decided that if I get a couple of good wigs (I’m thinking Dolly Parton here), I’ll NEVER have a bad hair day again.  This could work out!  I’m thinking different colors … different lengths.  On days I feel ironic, I could wear an auburn wig to match my name.  On those sassy days, I could be platinum blonde.  I could find my husband out working all hot and sweaty in the yard and whisper into his surprised ear in some deep, smoky Marlena Dietrich voice, “Come, I vant to fock you.”  I could go Goth black whenever I feel a Sylvia Plath poetry mood coming on.  Then, when I want to be real, I could just be … just be … bald.  And I could lace my fingers into my husband’s and lay my naked head on his shoulder while we have a movie date on the couch.

Yeah, there are way worse things that could happen.  I can do this.  The one thing I keep telling myself — over and over — is to remember how to fly.  Always — feathers or not — remember how to fly!

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