Just Call Me Sinead

On one of the last nights of our trip, Zach and I dressed up a bit for a nice dinner on the town. I put on a new dress, applied mascara to my last lingering lashes, drew something resembling eyebrows at the bottom margin of my forehead, and walked out the door, sans hat.

I figured I had nothing to lose, even though I'm still several weeks away from legitimately looking newly shorn rather than recently bald. There was virtually no chance of running into anyone I knew, so I didn't have to worry about helping someone else through a potentially awkward moment. And by that night, the heat wave we'd escaped in New York had made its way to the formerly cool and dry Northwest, so it was a blessing to go topless, as it were.

I definitely got a few sidelong glances on the way to the restaurant and to our table, but I have to say that it was mainly a non-event. I had actually used a bit of pomade to tame the errant tendrils poking out from various spots around my head, so I even appeared mildly coiffed. And I had on a great pair of earrings, plus a healthy dose of eyeshadow and eyeliner, so it was clear that I was cultivating some kind of look. The woman sitting at the next table had super-short hair, and I think she was trying to figure out how I could possibly have bested her.

If I were heavily tattooed and dressed entirely in black, I think I could easily pass for an avant-garde artist. Instead, I'm going to hang onto my little black baseball cap just a little while longer. But it's nice to have that first preview under my belt.