Sally-Sass-a-lot Sucks

I've been debating what to do with my wig, Sally. She's been sitting on her Styrofoam head with her perfect dye job for months, just staring at me. There's a part of me that says I should donate her. Then again, I keep thinking, "What if I need her again?" She's like my cancer woobie. When I was a little kid, my brother threw my blankie out a car window. At least that's how I remember it. I'm not sure if I'm ready to do that to Sally.

Today I was talking to my friend about Sally. She asked if I ever put her on. Like a drag queen before a night out. I reminded her there's a difference between donning some pink mylar and grabbing some glow sticks and wearing a wig because you HAVE to. But while on the phone, I thought about Sally. Maybe she was lonely. It would be nice to see long blond hair again. I proceeded to take Sally off her head and put her on. "Hold on a sec," I told Hope. Point four seconds later, she heard me mutter, "Nope. I'm done." I put Sally on and immediately took her off. Why?

Because Sally smells like Cancer.

The mere presence of Sally near my nostrils and I'm taken back to chemo. Nothing else I own smells like Sally. That combination of hair dye and god-knows-what. But it's still there. And I'm not doing it. No fucking way. My mouth automatically went dry and I put Sally back. I'm thinking my relationship with Sally is over. I may keep her long enough to show a colorist the exact shade of blond I'd like if I ever go back. But that's it. If I get cancer again, I won't ever wear a wig. Too much work. And I can only take so many Sallys smelling up my closet.