hairless

My wife is essentially hairless.
That is, all her hair has fallen out, so she is left with the filmy peach-fuzz patina endemic to all chemo-patients.
It’s a bit strange, but same voice, same snide remarks, same frenzied pace.
“Worst president ever,” she says, referring to Dubya. “The thought of Hilary as prez is sickening too, but so far Dubya has been the worst.”
“Our president should be fluent in at least one language,” she says, referring to Dubya and Ah-nald.
That’s my wife; hairless, but still herself. (A dreaded Liberial.)
She wears a hat to bed, and around the house.
The wigs look fine to me, but don’t pass muster with Linda.
There are two wigs: -A) the online fake wig, and -B) the supposedly-better wig-lady wig.
At least an hour got “waisted” trying each on, and then fussing and fuming.
“Whaddya think?”
“Looks fine to me.”
Back to the mirror for another half-hour.
“I gotta get these bangs cut. Maybe the Hairman can do it.”
Every once-in-a-while an incredible hairball occurs to her.
Time for the old stroke-survivor to step in and attempt to be the voice-of-reason.
“Now what? I give up!” I hear her shout at her vaunted PC. (“Please wait while Windoze cogitates the meaning of the universe — OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMM............”)
Hairless, but alive.

My wife (“Linda”) has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable with chemo — she will survive.)

“Dubya” is our current president, George Dubya Bush. “Ah-nald” is Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Liberial” is how my loudmouthed macho brother-from-Boston noisily insists “liberal” is spelled. He also insists “waste” is spelled “waist.”

“Hairman” is our hair-dresser. We’ve gone to him at least 16 years.

I had a stroke October 26, 1993.

RE: “Please wait while Windoze cogitates the meaning of the universe — OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMM............” All my siblings drive PCs; I drive a MAC and am therefore reprehensible. This is a pot-shot against my siblings.