I don’t get out much. I work from home, rest all afternoon, and then have a blast hanging out with the kids when they get home from school.
So, maybe my most recent social interaction seems idiotic because I’ve lost all social skills. Who knows?
I’d kidnapped our one working car and gone to buy groceries. I can’t walk very far into the store because it hurts my back, right leg, and hips. So, I quickly grabbed the two items I needed and went to the checkout.
Since I don’t get out much, I’d actually done my hair for the occasion. It’s funny how going to the store is almost like going to the prom now—a big freakin’ deal. And suddenly, this incredibly tall, handsome man started talking to me. “I love your hair,” he said. “You are beautiful. Women just don’t do their hair like that anymore.”
Excuse me? I looked around. Was this guy talking to me, a woman who feels like she’s still fighting in WWIII. I’d done my hair up like a pinup girl. Sure I might have cancer but I can have class too. And just ‘cause I feel like ass, doesn’t mean I need to look like it too.
I finally turned to the man and could’ve fainted. “Um.” I balked, not knowing what to do. “My-husband-does-my-hair,” I blurted.
“Oh, yes. He’s the most AMAZING man. Does hair and fixes cars too. Practically fixed my whole damn life.”
The guy had started to smile in this unnerving way. Hadn’t he just been hitting on me? Or was I mistaken? Have I been out of the game long enough to get this confused? “All my hair fell out,” I went on, compounding an already uncomfortable situation. Other people had begun listening too. “Cancer treatments,” I said to practically the whole store.
The man’s eyes widened.
“But it’s back now. Not my husband—he’s always been there. My hair…IT is back. The hair that my husband dyes.”
Did I mention my husband?
At this point, someone from another checkout aisle waved and said—laughing REALLY hard, “I like your hair too.” It was one of Mike’s best friends! He must’ve thought the whole interaction was hilarious. And I wanted to die. Forget about cancer treatments, radiation, and tumors, grocery shopping will cause my untimely death.
I called one of my friends after all of this. “Why would someone hit on you?” she asked. “You have cancer.”
“Thanks a lot! And he didn’t know that, not until I told the whole freakin’ store.”
That night, Mike called me from work, laughing really hard. I guess his friend had just told him about what happened at the store.
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Oh, yes.” Mike chuckled. “He told me you’re hilarious. And I should never worry if someone hits on you because you’ll tell them all about me.”
So, I had a good and a terrible thing happen. I got hit on, and I handled it kind of like a psycho—but that means despite cancer and physical disabilities, I still got it 😂😂😂
Oh, man. No more trips to the store for me—for a while anyway. Thank God the grocery store delivers.