Hat trick

Last week I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Ten days ago, my dermatologist did a shave biopsy of a growth on my scalp. By “shave biopsy,” I mean she shaved part of my scalp along with the growth. I already struggle with my appearance—I’m extremely tall, and cancer treatment left me flat-chested with short, thin, gray hair. But having a gross scab on my scalp was a new blow. I texted a pic of the disaster site to my daughter, who revealed her mastery of empathy.

Me: For your eyes only: as if getting old weren’t humiliating enough

Daughter: Aw, mom. What was it? Cute mask and jacket!

Me: Just a keratosis that had gotten alarmingly big—not even a cancer. But she had to shave part of my scalp. I’m mortified. And then when I was trying to buy a hat to cover it up, the clerk said, Hey, old man, can I help you? I’m never leaving the house again 

Daughter: Ugh, mom. That clerk is dumb. Did you get the hat?

Me: Yes, but it makes me look like Bozo. I’m having a really bad day. I feel like crying. I’m not really a vain person. But this is too much.

Daughter: Don’t cry! I love you. And you’re really pretty. I’m lucky to look like you. We just have to find you a cuter hat.

And by the time I got home, she had ordered four hats, to be delivered to me the next day: three straw, and one a homely denim with a daisy applique. That was to make sure no one mistook me for a man, she said.

Yesterday I wore the daisy hat, and I texted her the result.

Me: Looking very cis in my daisy hat today! And someone in Harlem called me Mami! 

Daughter: [Heart sign]


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