When I was younger, a few people would tell me I reminded them of Demi Moore.
Naturally, I never argued with them.
There are some compliments in life that one simply accepts with great humility.
Fast forward a few decades…
Cancer entered the chat.
Chemotherapy did what chemotherapy does, and my hair decided to make its own plans.
My husband, who has taken this entire journey far more seriously than I have, immediately went into solution mode.
If there was a head covering available anywhere on the internet, he found it.
Scarves.
Caps.
Beautiful wigs.
At one point he even bought me a baseball cap with long flowing hair attached to it.
The first time I put it on, I looked in the mirror and burst out laughing.
Not because it looked bad.
Quite the opposite.
It looked surprisingly convincing.
Long straight dark hair flowed down my back.
For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of my younger self.
Then I walked into the room and announced,
“Hi. I’m Demi’s sister.
Semi Moore.”
I don’t think my husband found it nearly as funny as I did.
He’s spent this whole journey worrying about me.
I’ve spent a good part of it inventing ridiculous alter egos.
Then my sister joined in.
When we were children, I loved having her braid my hair.
She was endlessly patient.
Once, she actually sat there and made fifteen little braids, one after another, until her hands were probably begging for mercy.
Now my husband and sister have spent years in a friendly competition over who loves me more. And secretly I think they’re also wondering who I love more as well
They are very fond of each other.
Yet, each is mildly suspicious that I’m fonder of the other.
So, when she heard about all my various wigs, she decided my husband’s elegant wig simply wasn’t enough.
A parcel arrived.
Inside was…
dreadlocks.
Magnificent, glorious dreadlocks.
Now here’s the funny part.
I own a beautiful, perfectly natural-looking wig.
It’s elegant.
Expensive.
Very sensible.
And yet…
I’ve probably worn the dreadlocks more often.
Because if life unexpectedly hands you the chance to see yourself with dreadlocks at age fifty-nine…
why wouldn’t you?
Cancer has done many things.
It has changed my hair.
It has changed my priorities.
It has even changed the contents of my wardrobe.
But it hasn’t taken away my ability to play.
Some days I’m Rashmi.
Some days I’m Semi Moore.
Some days I have dreadlocks like Bob Marley.
And honestly…
I rather like having options.
After all, hair grows.
Wigs can change.
Fashion comes and goes.
But the people who love you enough to buy them for you…
They’re the real beauty treatment.
And between my wonderfully serious husband…
my silly mischievous sister…
and my growing collection of entirely unnecessary hairstyles…
I’d say I’m doing just fine
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