Saturday, November 23, 2013

big decision

wig hair

wiggity hair

no hair (mine grew back, his did not)
barely there hair
Been thinking about this post for a while now.  I've got a pretty poor sense of time, so it could have been weeks, or months, for all I know.  Either way, I went for a haircut last weekend.  As usual, I collected haircut ideas on my Pinterest board for a few days before my appointment.  And as I perused the celebrity style images online, I fought back the urge to cut it all off.

Can you believe this?  I actually want to cut my hair.  Like, really short.  Again.

The strange thing is that I also want long hair.  There's a back and forth I have with myself about this decision.  Long hair is nice to have.  It is soft and silky and impossible to have if you are receiving chemo (at least my kinda chemo).  Thus, my brain equates long hair to being the anti-cancer.

the pixie cut I never thought I'd have
Buuut.  Long hair requires a great deal of attention to keep it looking so lovely.  There are products, brushes, heat stylers, etc.  And time.  You must set aside large chunks of time for drying, brushing, washing, not-clogging-shower drains, straightening, you get the idea.  Do I want to spend all of my free time on my hair?  While I discovered a few years ago, ahem, that I can actually keep my hair supershort and it looks cuter than I ever would've suspected.  Short hair is SO freaking easy to care for.  It does require more frequent trimming, but that's about it.  Wash, slather product, wear.  The End.

Who would ever think hair holds this much value?  (Samson not included.)  It almost always grows back.

Well, for now, the verdict is to continue to grow it.  Sticking with long until at least next summer. Then -for hair and other life decisions- we will reassess.

All the survivors in the house:  I'm curious, how did you handle post-chemo hair?

hairy head

my best boy getting his hairs cut
ps. you can see why the newest addition to the oxford english dictionary is selfie.

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Ode to Potato Chips

My name is Mia and I like potato chips.  I mean, to be honest, it's more than like.  I LOVE potato chips.

When I was 4 and 1/2 and I had just started kindergarten, I tasted them for the first time.  A child raised on dried green beans and dehydrated apple rings for snacks, I had no name for these crunchy bits of goodness.  But I told my mom about them.  Someone had them in their lunch and shared with me (this was before the days of peanut allergies, I guess).  And could you please get them for my lunch?  They were salty, kind of yellowish, round and crunchy?  Know what I'm talking about?
not my chips :(
No idea, my mom shrugged her shoulders.  Don't know what you're talking about.

Oh, she knew.  She knew exactly what I was describing, and perhaps how damned addictive they are.  Well, there was no stopping me.  Salt, no salt, ridges, ruffles, thick cut, kettle cooked, olive oil, they are so tasty.  I am pro-potato, anti-fake chips (read: Pringles, o'lean products) or ick! baked chips.  I believe there are times in our lives when the combination of oil, salt, and ever-so-thinly-sliced potato crisps can heal what ails us.  Heck, even my nutritionist, back in the day of chemotherapy, told me that while they are not the most nutrient-rich food on earth (big shocker), if that's all I had an appetite for to go to town on those bad boys.

You can have your ice cream.  You can have your Belgian chocolates (except that last one in the pantry), you can have your cheesecake.

Leave me the chips.*

*Will accept french fries, frites, shoe strings or fresh tater tots as acceptable substitutions.

Saturday, November 9, 2013


Some weeks feel like they take a month to pass, say for example, when you are sick, or waiting for results.  But occasionally, time passes in real time. And it moves fast.

working on his own version of Van Gogh's Sunflowers

modeling his newly imported "football" jersey from Paris

celebrating his half birthday with a buttermilk cake with fresh berries