It was quite a day. When I said "hello" to my friends in the hallway, many did not recognize me; then after a brief delay, sudden recognition would cause their eyes to open wide, exploding like recoiling window shades. "Laurie. . . your own hair!" Others who had somehow missed aligning the fact that I had been the girl-with-the-wig, were astonished by the improvement and looked at me in a new light. Most surprising to me, however, were the teachers who remained unaware of my health problem, for I had assumed all of my instructors had been thus enlightened. My civics teacher soon proved that my assumption was incorrect, however, as he looked at me and proclaimed, "Your hair cut is quite an improvement." I looked at several of the nearby students, in whose eyes I caught a shared glimmer of humor. "Thank you," I replied. Still immersed in self-consciousness, an explanation seemed rather pointless, yet I marveled at his apparent belief that I had actually chosen to wear my hair in such an unflattering manner. Some people must have thought I had a putrid sense of style. The past, however, no longer seemed to matter, for it was kindled in the fires of the present, and I felt incredibly free… and irrepressibly human.
It was unreal that I had been dubious about the decision to put my wig to eternal rest, especially after the frightening reception to which I had been treated on that first agonizing day of school in August. My wig caused pain, to be certain, but without it I would have suffered more; part of me shrunk behind its netted structure of synthetic hair, and even when my own hair was ready to debut in public, the impending change suddenly seemed drastic and was accompanied by fear. I felt unprotected and vulnerable without the wig's weight upon my head. It was as if I had to relinquish my shield and stand alone and unmasked before the world's judgmental gaze.
My fear, once overcome, was replaced with ecstasy. I had undergone a transformation—a metamorphosis—which was amazing. My courage had not failed me, it had buoyed me up; now I possessed the self-confidence to reflect formerly concealed attributes because I no longer detested my appearance, nor did I have to deal with the menacing blows which it had previously evoked. I had initially planned to dispose of my two wigs in a stately burning ceremony behind the house, but after my hair returned, I no longer bore any ill will toward the inanimate hair pieces, and ended their stay at our house by giving them to the Thrift Shop. In retrospect, I knew that the wigs were great allies and had served faithfully for many grueling months. Their malignancy had expired in my eyes, for my eyes had expanded their vision.
Through the years I came to acknowledge that people generally have a foremost problem over which they grieve remorsefully; if that problem disappears, their lives do not long remain blissful ere another problem arises to disturb and provoke their happy state of mind. Often one can determine an individual's quality of life, or the quality of his values, through the problem to which he gives priority. Some people, I believe, have little more than what I label "illegitimate beefs" (or insignificant and unfounded troubles); other people dabble midway between problems and trivials, or have a flair for creating headaches through flaws in the decisive factors of life.
Personally, I felt my problems would no longer include "real" problems, for my health was returning. Nausea after meals was more of an inconvenience than a problem, and it was the only existing reminder, aside from operative scars, that attested to my harrowing experiences of the past year. If boyfriends and clothes and hairstyles were to be my only future problems, I figured that I could go through life with few ill-spent tears. I had no idea that a major bomb would drop so soon on my newly acquired happiness.
Jan 31, 1977… Norm called and said Tracy left. I was (and still am) hurt. She was a great person to know and it hurts to think I'll never see her again. I feel sorry for Norm, too. I guess Tracy was seeing a guy since summer. It's just hard to take it in. Norm came over and watched T.V.
Feb. 1, 1977… Norm's coming for supper every day this week. I'm glad. I think it will help him a little.
I was in the kitchen when Norm called, and after hearing his message from Mom, curled up in one of the chairs and cried. It was inevitable, perhaps, but I, like Norm, had attempted to impede the unstoppable through positive thought. Positive thought, however, carries no clout with respect to the alteration of another's ideas, which consequently, had already been set as solidly as if in cement.
Gradually I learned the tale behind the divorce as Norm opened up and shared his emotional burden of the past months. Because he was not a demonstrative person and enjoyed having time to himself, he was rather glad when Tracy stopped asking to accompany him on all of his walks and motorcycle rides, and through constant togetherness, needing to assure herself of his love. The marriage was more comfortable and appeared to be evolving toward his ideal; stability which came from the knowledge and acceptance of each other.
Just as Norm began to think of their union as a terrific success, Tracy lost interest. The marriage, for her, was no longer exciting, and when the blood failed to rush to her face upon Norm's appearance in a room, she felt that her love had expired. Simplicity was not enough to keep a constant fire burning, nor was a man whose love for her was steadfast and true. She had a fascination for pursuing slightly shady aspects of life, and unfortunately, an extra-marital romance filled her requirements for excitement.