And the colour turned out glorious.
With a little side-sweeping and careful angles, you can't even spy all the bright pink scalp and forehead action.
When I went into the chemo room yesterday to get my first real poke from scratch through my friendly neighbourhood port, the nurses (even bitch-face redhead) went wild for the hair, but I think it's mostly because they go wild for any hair after endless days and weeks of bald. I'll be sorry to eventually disappoint them.
The port has healed like a motherfucker. One week in and the scar needs its own star on the walk of fame. The catheter only barely peeks through the skin leading up over my collar bone and into my jug-u-tastic vein. Dr. M is my new girlcrush.
I'm missing my work peeps today as they pull off a show in Vancouver that I started but they'll mos def make better than I ever could. I love you all to bits.
I'm also praying to the goddesses of hips (she'd be a sexy one) that my brilliantly wicked and kind friend Di makes it over the hump of brand new hip surgery so she can get back to her days of nursing injured baby birds back to health, making stiff martinis for her guests and just generally making sure everyone around her enjoys life as much as she does. Love you, girl.
Next up: Is that the buzz of a razor I hear?