Hi. My name is Carin and I have a Jewfro.
Heeb hair. A Moses mop. A latke lid. I\’m down with my fun girl curls, but I can\’t say the same for the men I meet. My big hair is the Mason-Dixon Line of my L.A. dating life. Some men love the untamed, wild, bed-head look of my natural waves. But many men prefer I play it straight.
A day before I left for a vacation cruise to Alaska, I looked in the mirror and spied, atop my clean, bald head — Hair! There wasn\’t much of it, standing less than one-sixteenth of an inch tall. But when I ran my hand over my crown, I felt the delicious tickle of stubble.
\”It\’s back!\” I cried to my friend Susan, who was lending me a gown for the cruise\’s formal night. We jumped up and down the way we did in high school when the latest \”he\” called. I\’ve been a cue ball since Day 12 of my first round of chemo. All my hair is gone, including eyebrows and lashes. The only really bad part, aside from looking like a Conehead, is the way drafts of cold air make my forehead feel glacial. In Alaska, I spent time looking for bald eagles, seeking to join their minyan.
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