My Sister’s Hats

If my brother thought I was a pain in the rear growing up – my sister had no doubts at all. Diane was eleven when I was born.

She was a built in babysitter for me when our mother went back to work as a registered nurse in a local hospital when I was five. I was a built in chaperon for many of her dates, whether it was tagging along when she went to the beach or sneaking around the squeaky floor boards in the kitchen to spy when she said goodnight to her current beau at the back door landing. In fact, I was 26 before she actually made up her mind in favor of letting me live.

Our father died when I was 16 and our mother when I was 35 and living abroad in Greece with my husband. After our brother died three years ago, I asked Diane if she was glad she’d chosen not to strangle me on any one those numerous occasions she believed me deserving of immediate death.

“Most days,” she said. “Why?”
“It turns out I’m the only one you’ve got left.”
She visibly startled. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. You’re right,” she said softly.
“What? I’m WHAT? I'm right? RIGHT????” I bolted to the wall calendar and wrote on the day’s date in permanent Sharpie marker: “PAM WAS RIGHT!” As I returned to our Canadian Canasta game, Diane swatted me playfully in sisterly pique and we continued together to soundly trounce our husbands at cards.

What does that story have to do with living boldly bald? More than anybody, my sister suffered the emotional trauma of my hair loss. She wouldn’t look at me. She’d turn away or cover her eyes with her hand whenever I took off the wig.

“Cover your head!” she’d insist, and I would, feeling frustrated and hurt. When it became clear that wigs simply were not for me either physically or emotionally she pursed her lips and said: “Well then start wearing hats.”

“Sister-mine,” I retorted, “if you want me to wear hats, you’d better get busy and make them.”

Darned if she didn’t get several crocheted hat patterns and do just that! Each new hat was an experiment in style and color and materials. Each one was better than the one before. Each one got jazzed up with broaches and flowers and buttons and doo-dahs. They are fun and stylish and sassy. We’ve found I’m happiest with a fedora that has wire in the rim so I can shape it to my whim of the day. A fedora suits my last-of-the-red-hot-mama’s-despite-being-58-and-fat swagger.

The day Diane came to accept me bald was the day I took off my hat to mop the pooling sweat and she saw how wet the paper towel was.

“I can’t do this anymore, Diane. I can’t be this uncomfortable to protect you from your distaste.”

She looked stunned. Turns out, it wasn’t distaste – it was both fear and her sense of propriety. If Diane didn’t see the baldness she wouldn’t have see the difference in me. She wouldn’t have to cope with something being wrong or worry.

My sister has been a reserved and private person, where I have always been outgoing and in-your-face-Snoopy-happy-dance effervescent. When we went places together and my head was covered, she didn’t have to cope with as many stares or potential questions and she was more comfortable.

Somewhere along the line we both realized I can’t live my life from the premise of my sister’s comfort…or anyone else’s. She left her comfort zone behind and looked at me openly. Hugged me genuinely, touched the baby bottom softness of my scalp without flinching. She said she was okay with my baldness. She said it, but I knew she really meant it the day she told me if I wanted any more hats I’d have to learn how to make them myself.

Hat’s on…and off…to you Diane! I love you too, all the way to the moon and back.

Once again my big sister has decided in favor of letting me live.