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“No, thank you,” I smile and shake my head no to emphasize my words.
“Your hands will be very soft!”
“What makes you think they aren’t already?” I ask and he stutters for a moment and I laugh and keep going. They can be pushy, but I get it, sales jobs like that must be tough.
Just as I see the lights of all the food eateries and momentarily pause, deciding which to choose, a voice distracts me and causes me to look into the shop on my right. I’m not sure why I do, I didn’t even think about it, but what I see inside has me stopping in my tracks. Realizing that I’ll be obvious standing here and gaping inside, I take the few steps needed to allow me to slip inside the store. I shouldn’t, it’s wrong of me to eavesdrop, but I find myself standing purposefully behind a display to eye a little girl over the top.
“How about that one, mommy?” The little girl, no more than ten or eleven points and her mother spins around facing my direction. She’s not looking at me; she’s looking at a wig her daughter is pointing at. The store is full of them: wigs, hair extensions and hairpieces that you can clip into your hair. The child section of the store is enough to break your heart.
“Oh, I like that one too.” The mother takes the wig off the mannequin head for her daughter. The little girl anxiously reaches for it so she can try it on. She ooh’s and aah’s at the curls the blonde wig gives her, even spins in a circle and shakes her head to see the curls bounce then laughs.
“Now I can have curly hair! I really like this one.”
“Me too. You look beautiful, but you know I think that you look beautiful with or without the wig, honey. Are you sure you want one?”
I don’t hear her reply; I’m too busy being sucked back into a time my own mother and I were in a store just like this one. It was before this mall was built and we had to drive an hour outside of our town to the closest mall to find a wig store. Wearing a pretty blue scarf over her newly baldhead my mom teasingly told me how she had no idea not having hair could make a person so cold. She tried on wig after wig that day fretting in the mirror, tears of frustration in her eyes.
“None of these look right. I look ridiculous.”
“You look beautiful in all of them, mom.”
She sighs heavily and puts another on her head to try. She moves it this way and that, her frustration becoming more palpable by the second. “I don’t want to do this.” Her voice is so soft I almost don’t hear her. “I don’t want to have to do this.”
Taking the wig from her hands, I place it back on the mannequin then take her hands in mine. “Let’s go.”
“But I should-”
“Not today, mom.” A single tear falls from the corner of her eye and it takes every single piece of strength I have within me not to crumble at the sight. But I can’t. She needs me to be strong right now so she can break. She’s so strong all the damn time. It’s my turn. “Not today and maybe not ever, but definitely not today, okay? We can look again another time if you want.” I had put emphasis on the word ‘you,’ in an attempt to give her a bit of power in this otherwise powerless feeling situation.
She nods her head and we leave without another word. That night I shave my head to match my mom’s. When I walk out and she sees me, her mouth falls open and then she begins to cry. “Remy! What have you done to your beautiful hair? You did not have to do that for me.”
“I’m an adult, I can do whatever I want,” I wipe the tears from her face, but it’s fruitless; they continue to fall. We end up crying together, but it turns into laughter when I confess how damn cold my baldhead is.
Looking down I blink rapidly trying to clear the vision and the water that’s in my eyes. Doing my best not to sniffle and reveal my presence, I turn intending to leave the store. I’ve been intrusive enough and feel ashamed. I have no right to be snooping on such a personal moment. I don’t know that I even understand why I walked in here to begin with.
“Hi!” Surprised I stop and stare down at the child I was watching. Her bright smile and blue eyes immediately capture my attention.
“Hello,” I try to return her smile.
“My name is Makayla, what’s yours?”
“My name is Remy, Makayla, it’s nice to meet you.”
“Do you have cancer too?” Her question is blunt and makes my throat tighten.
“Makayla! You are certainly old enough to know better than to ask someone a question like that,” her mother looks at me, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I clear my throat and open my mouth and then close it before finally blurting, “Yes. Yes, I do,” I nod my head as if it emphasizes the words. It feels strange to answer her honestly, but I’m not about to lie to a little girl. There’s also something oddly liberating about admitting it – even to a stranger.
“You know what my daddy says?”
“What does he say?”
“He says I’m a warrior because I’m fighting cancer. One time he even said I’m going to ‘kick cancer’s ass’, but I’m not allowed to say ‘ass’.”
“Makayla!” Her mother admonishes, but I can tell she’s trying to hide a smile. I am too.
“Well you are a warrior. I just met you and even I can tell.”
