Fake Is the New Natural

“Well, you won’t be the only woman in Dallas with scars all over her breasts.”   That’s what my excellent friend Jeanne said right after my diagnosis, when I was lamenting the forthcoming loss of my beautiful, natural, breasts.  At that time, we both thought breast reconstruction would be relatively straightforward, similar to the breast augmentation surgery that so many of our friends have had.  In retrospect, our I-can-do-anything attitude only showed what monsters lurk in the unlighted depths of the “Don’t know what you don’t know” square of the knowledge quadrant.

“You’re  such a natural beauty,” said another friend, one who I think has been on the D Magazine list of Dallas’ most beautiful women at least once.  Her compliment, a lovely one, and very well-timed, was, I suspect, Dallas-speak for “You might want to fix your hair and wear more makeup,” but, because my friend is awesome, and tactful in a way I can never dream of becoming, it was all sugar and no barb.

“Holy shit, your hair came back the exact same color it was in college,” said my friend Jennifer, a born and bred New Yorker.  In one way, Jennifer is right.  My new hair looks exactly like my hair would have looked in high school and college if only I had known how to style it.  For this, I have to thank my awesome hairdresser, Art, who has been able to make my hair look as good as possible during the whole horrible growing out after cancer phase.   I’m not sure what the “real” current natural color of my hair is, since I have not seen it in about eight years, but, from what I can tell, I have a lot of grey along my part.  Art, if you are reading this, please how awesome you really are.

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This past weekend, while cleaning out my closet, I unearthed a couple of pairs of retro-retro size six Calvin Klein Jeans I picked up in 1997 during a brief resurgence of that style.  Hmmm.  I hear the eighties are back again.  Do they fit?  YES THEY DO!

For most women in their early forties who have had two children, this would be unthinkable.  Not me.  Anyone who has had as much plastic surgery as I have had — a lot — really, a lot — a whole heck of a lot — in fact, too much plastic surgery — had better look good in those pre-pregnancy jeans, as well as the fitted turtleneck sweater to go with them.

So yeah, this fall, I shall be sporting some extra-vintage Calvins.  The ones where the waist comes up so high that it won’t show my whale tail, assuming anything comes between me and them.  For someone who throws out everything I can, I’m glad I kept them all these years.