Sally is a new friend who just went through at least one circle of hell with me.
We’re standing in my bathroom after I’ve washed my hair and body for the first time in 48 hours, while clinging to the handrails. Not easy, but necessary. The back of my hair is full of dried blood.
I’m on pain pills and Sally is worried I’ll fall. If I invited her into the shower, she would have come in and washed my hair for me. That’s how good a friend she is.
However, as you know if you’ve read my work written after I broke both ankles last year, I’m an independent woman who thinks she can do anything, and some things twice.
I use the hand not clinging to the handrail to wash my hair twice and condition it twice. But I still feel stiffened clumps of hair at the back of my neck.
I wrap myself in a towel, and Sally comes in to inspect my hair. In spite of my valiant efforts to wash it out, she spots the stiffened clumps of hair and begins to dab at them with a wash cloth. The cloth comes away bloody — numerous times. The hair isn’t getting any softer.
Finally, I hand her the scissors and request she cut out all clumps of hair caked with blood. Maybe I’m wrong, but a few missing chunks are less noticeable than stiff, bloody hair.
Did I mention she is a new friend? We’ve known each other less than a year. And yet, when I told her and two other friends of ours that I was doing something that would require help afterward, they all volunteered. They are each nurturing and loyal in their own ways. Shirley once drove 45 minutes to bring me her homemade soup when I was sick. Suzanne’s sweet, caring nature is what brought the four of us together.
Sally, though, was the logical person, as she was a believer in my particular choice. The others had no judgement about it, they just hadn’t experienced anything like it.
Since I was inflicting this damage on myself, I thought it a good idea to have someone help who didn’t think I’d completely lost my mind. Although, because she was relegated to cutting blood out of my hair, it’s debatable who has lost whose mind.
What was this dangerous activity that resulted in a head full of blood?
I had a lower facelift. It took six hours. And according to the plastic surgeon, I bled. A lot. The evidence supported her observation.
I had blood in my hair, and blood in my ears. Fortunately, I also had Sally.
Thank the plastic gods that I only had a lower facelift done, and not the whole face. Sally and I might never have gotten all the blood out.
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This post was previously published on New Choices.
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