the wildness of hair

I spent so many years trying to tame my hair, style to look professional, blow it, iron it, clip it, tie it, always a battle but still knowing that I was lucky to have thick beautiful hair, lion hair as my husband called it. Like every woman who is told they have cancer I cried about my hair, cried when I cut it off, mourned it, bought a wig and expected it to fall out. As we know now, mine thinned but never fell out completely, waiting for me like a tease, teasing me about what it was and what it would be again if I lived long enough. Now, it keeps growing and keeps trying to fill in and it is wilder then ever, not really curly in the way it used to be when I was younger the beautiful soft healthy curls, but it is grey and wild, in a way that seems it can't be tamed, when I try to straighten it, it refuses to cooperate as if to say I've had enough, give it up and let me be, let me be free as I have suffered to through your illness. Forget taming me, like you can forget taming cancer, it can't be done. So I let it be wild and free, with a little hair spray and it is what it is, like me.