"Wow!  You have pink hair!" 

"Is your pink hair real or fake?"

"You must be a rebel."

"Are you an artist?" 

These are some of the words people say to me about my hair.  A year ago, I dyed a small strip of my hair pink--scorching hot bubble gum pink--for Pink October.  I followed a prodding impulse to find a way to show that I am a member of the pink tribe.  I am a breast cancer survivor.  

Since I'd lost my hair during chemo, coloring a bit of it pink made sense to me.  I thought it might open the door to conversation and awareness, opportunities to remind other women about breast health.  

It's not enough pink hair to start a rebellion.

When October passed and it was time to lose the pink, I couldn't do it.  I stayed pink for Christmas, for my last writing residency in January of 2013 in Oregon, and now I own it.    

I get some strange looks.  The pink's become so much a part of me that I sometimes forget it's there.  One time a school teacher told me that children are not allowed to wear any unusual hair color during the school year.  I told her that it's a sad world when children aren't permitted to express themselves.  Smirk.  

Pink attitude for artists and rebels and everyone in the tribe.

     

In case you've forgotten ...

TROOPERS GO PINK FOR OCTOBER

Maine State Police car license plates for October 2013

 I'd like to pull one of these troopers over and give them a hug.

Here's the official 411:

NEWS ADVISORY from the Maine Department of Public Safety from Spokesman Steve McCausland:

[On Monday, Maine] State Police will unveil a new license plate to coincide with “Breast Cancer Awareness Month.”  Col. Robert Williams, Chief of the State Police, and Sgt. Michael Edes, President of the Maine State Troopers Association, will hold a news conference  at 1pm Monday at the Maine Department of Public Safety in Augusta. The plates will be displayed on every marked State Police cruiser during October.

On every state police cruiser!  Did you hear that?
Let me know if your state is doing the same!
Now, about Texas ... .

VANITY CHER

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-3445_162-57604026/cher-speaks-her-mind/

When I was fifteen, I wanted long, glossy hair and a flat stomach like Cher.  Today I'm 53,and although I don't care as much that her hair is still glossy and she probably has a flat stomach, I couldn't stop myself from longing for a smooth neck like Cher's.

And her face.  Cher can turn back time.  She's 67.  (Hillary Clinton is 66).  

I watch CBS Sunday Morning in the same way that some people go to church except I'm still wearing my PJs.  But during today's "Cher Speaks Her Mind" segment I found myself mesmerized by her in the very same way that I'd sit captivated all those years ago, watching The Sonny and Cher Show, and later The Cher Show.

And though she has more plastic in her face than the Tupperware factory, I can't not like her.  She's out-spoken and feisty, a legendary performer.  Moonstruck is one of my favorite movies.  I'm not a Cher hater, not at all.

I just can't come to grips with her face.  And that neck.  I get tangled in our culture's unrealistic aging expectations - we all do.  I get a mild dose of it now and then when I worry that maybe at mid-50 fabulous is no longer attainable, or at least not without the help of lasers, needles, and knives.

I can't say that Cher is a strong woman.  She's too vane, and won't age with dignity like my brave women heroes or strong women like you or me.

Bic Pens for Women - Ellen's Feminist Take

"Congratulations!"

That's the typical response I get when I say, "I'm a breast cancer survivor."

Honestly, I don't know what to say back to these well meaning people with their tap water cool emotions other than a mildly bewildered thank you.  While I know people feel discomfort when they hear the word cancer, and maybe they aren't certain of what to say, I think congrats! is reserved for special occasions, not survival of a serious health crisis.  

Congratulations is the thing we say to people who celebrate special occasions like  anniversaries, college graduations, and new babies.

Example:

 "My book got published!" "Congratulations!" (Where's the party?)

"My daughter's getting married!"  "Congratulations!" (She's off the payroll!)

"I won 3rd runner up in the Miss Hurlburt Field contest!"  "Congratulations!" (What the hell is a Hurlburt?)


When I say "I'm a breast cancer survivor," I'm saying that I have seen my mortality in the mirror, felt raw fear, and suffered.  Also, that I looked like a Q-Tip for a year with my bald head and skinny body.

 I'm saying I fought to stay here on this patch of the planet with my beloved family, my cherished friends, and my darling doggies.  Too, I am sharing a moment of our mortal condition, a reminder of our vulnerability, and how quickly circumstance can change our lives for good or ill.

I'm telling people that my every thought and action tumbles through my every moment is precious filter like laundry through the rinse cycle.

If you told me, "I survived an IED explosion in Afghanistan," I hope that I would take your hand, look in your eyes, and say, "I'm really glad you're here today."

"I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back,

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches." - Robert Frost

You know how people are always telling us we have to become willow trees in order to survive a tempest, to bend and sway and be all laid back and loose, like we'd smoked a pound of pot or something?  Otherwise, we'll snap.  Or at least that's what all the willows say.  

I say bullshit.  I'm never going to be a willow tree.  I'm a hardwood.  Type A control freak with leaves that tremble when the wind whispers.   Doom and gloom with a mix of optimism.  A good life storm will take me down and keep me down, "You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen," says Frost of birches.  

But birches don't break.  They bend in a storm without getting all willowy about it.

Painting by Kimberly Kiel