Sgt Pepper has been my partner in sickness. Since picking her up on my last day of chemo, we've kept each other occupied as I've recuperated at home. She's slept by my feet when I've been in bed. She's entertained me from the sofa as I've lay flat out. She even came to my rescue this weekend when I had a hot flush, fainted and fell into an awkward heap. (I seriously reckon I could train her up to become one of those 'cat calls 999' pets you read about in local newspapers.) Ludicrous as it seemed at the time, getting her has been one of my all-time Brilliant Decisions. And, wanky as it undoubtedly is to say it, she's formed part of my treatment.
But then spring came, and there's not just been a change in the season. I remember replying to an email from an ex-colleague well-wisher just before I was starting chemo. She asked when I'd be back out and about again, and my reply was something along the lines of, 'Hopefully by the time the spring flowers are out, I will be too.' And here we are. But my bloody cat's beaten me to it.
I'm damned if Sgt Pepper's going to be getting all the outdoor fun. I too want to be hanging wiv my homies; back out there, enjoying all the simple pint-and-crisps fun that seems such a distant memory. And so I declare this April as Pull Your Finger Out Your Arse And Face The World Month. Granted, there's still some healing to do on the tit-front, but it's about time I re-learned how to multi-task (note to self: typing a blog post while watching Loose Women does not a multi-tasker make), and find a way to recuperate and regenerate at the same time.
It's time to hunt out the fake tan, book in a manicure (and leg wax – one area in which I can't reason with my newly accelerated hair growth), build up some activity by walking around my lovely local area, treat myself to some new togs, get serious about Fat Club (properly this time) and lose the best part of a Glasto-ne in time for festival season. And then there's the barnet. A hairdo for the New Me. Not just baby-like regrowth; an actual style.
I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but I'm getting kind of used to seeing myself with short hair. That's not to say that I like it. But, hey, it's hair. And since I was pretty much bald at the beginning of this year, it's about a hundred million times better than that. But, say what you will, it does still look like hair that has regrown after chemo. It looks like something that's happened to me. And I want my hair to look like I've happened to it.
So I'm going blonde. Not blonde like before. Stand-up-and-take-notice blonde. Think Marilyn Monroe, Agyness Deyn, Gwen Stefani, that gorgeous little gal from Alphabeat or Gary Barlow circa 1992. That way, it'll look like a hairdo that was done out of choice; on purpose – and not because cancer forced its hairdressing hand. And, with any luck, it'll mean that my next Barnet Bulletin will be my last. Unless, of course, I end up looking more Marilyn Manson than Marilyn Monroe. In which case, we'll be back to square one. Either that or I'd better switch my Glastonbury tickets for Ozzfest ones.