Facebook Publication Date: 4/9/2021 15:04

Early April Ask

Those of you who know me know I am…er…oh, let’s just call a thing a thing!

I’m bald! Or, more accurately, bald-ing.
Or bald-ish.

All y’all know that because of alopecia I wear wigs, and sometimes also (off camera) wraps, and turbans, and caps, and scarves, and hats.

Not to hide. It’s pretty evident that I am well on my way to being a total chrome dome, and the wigs I wear are apparent to even the casual observer. And for those few who don’t know, I am always the first to tell.

My baldness is one of the first things I encounter, and confront, each and every morning. It’s the last thing I face as I ready myself for bed. It’s a constant.

These last weeks, I have been thinking a lot about my head. My head space; my headaches, my leaky eyes, but also I have been thinking about what is seen, and not seen; the tension of revealing vs. concealing; persona vs. person; disclosure vs. suppression.
Covert vs. overt.

I think about this as I consider which head covering to wear with my outfit for the day (or several outfits for Video Days). Hats and caps for working outside. Turbans and wraps for around the house. Wigs for cameras.

I think about the many coverings I wear here at Lace on Race. Wigs for zoom coachings and consults. Turbans and wraps as I research and write. Scarves sometimes, to fend off the breeze in the mornings as I sit outside with my first mug of something; sometimes coffee, sometimes tea, but always steaming, and contemplate the day.

Sometimes I wear nothing at all, as I rub the soft fuzz, the last hardy stalwarts of my biohair, as I contemplate Lace on Race, all of us as a community, and also, for those who have allowed yourselves to be seen, vulnerable and fragile fuzz and scarring and all, each of you individually.

Sometimes, I eschew the scarf, or the cap, or the wrap, and, in my mind, meet you as close to naked as I can. I imagine all of you by the orange tree. I use my fictive imagination to imagine which cup on the shelf suited you best; whether you preferred coffee or tea. Will you sit on the chair, or on the blanket spread out on the grass? Will we mouth pleasantries, or are we ready to talk about the hard things? Are we ready to sit in deep silence, in the liminal spaces, and speak to each other wordlessly, meeting each other in ways words sometimes simply cannot?

These days, when I take off my head covering to meet you all collectively and individually, you will see bandages and scars. Some of the scars are from alopecia, but some of them are more metaphorical than actual.

These weeks have been hard. Blows have definitely landed. The blood has been (mostly) wiped up with stinging alcohol and cotton pads; the dressings have been changed. But the marks and contusions are still purple and tender.

Will we talk about them; you and me under the orange tree? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe you might consider it rude to talk about my black eye and the gash in my forehead. Maybe you will wonder why my words sound garbled between my swollen lips. Maybe you will mistake my bruises for blush, and speak of my beauty while ignoring my talismans of pain.

But maybe you won’t. Maybe we will talk about my face, contorted and distorted, but still me; maybe we will talk about healing; maybe you will even offer balm that takes away the sting.

Or maybe I will continue to hold you as you expect, give instruction and encouragement and exhortation despite my lumpy head and markened face. Maybe you will finish your coffee, or your tea, leaving your cup unrinsed and leave me under the tree. Or maybe not. Maybe you will take the cups into the kitchen with me, help me fold the blanket, and put another kettle on to boil, measuring coffee grounds and tea leaves with me as we, together, wait for the next weary walker and serve them with our very best.

Maybe you will tenderly replace the scarf or turban or wrap onto my head, choosing to serve as you have (hopefully) been served by me, winding it gently, ever so gently, wincing alongside me when you (inevitably) hit a lump or a scar, and I involuntarily moan.
Maybe you will look me in the eye as we stand here in my kitchen. Maybe, before you leave, you reassure of return, and you reach into your pocket.

And there it will be. A mug containing a sachet of tea. For me. For Me! The water you boiled was for me! What a gift. A flavor I have never tasted before, made up of your own story and tears and life and love and service and Hesed. That’s it! That’s the fragrance!
Hesed.

This is the Lace on Race Early April Ask.

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