Ellen Wilder’s hair was the bane of her existence. She didn’t count bad hair days, she counted good ones. And she was lucky to get two, maybe three, of those a month. She’d tried every product her friends recommended to tame her wildly curly mop, but nothing seemed to work.
From time to time, Ellie had given serious thought to cutting her hair, but she’d never succumbed to the impulse. In the South, the length of a woman’s hair was sometimes viewed as an indicator of her femininity, and with her beanpole figure, Ellie figured she needed any advantage her shoulder-length curls, wild or not, gave her.
But yesterday the diagnosis of cancer had been confirmed by a second doctor. Monday she started chemotherapy and radiation. Today, she had to tell her boss, then her mother and aunt. Ellie strongly suspected that the corporate mogul for whom she worked as administrative assistant and translator was going to take the news better than the two former beauty queens.
With a final look in the mirror, Ellie straightened the cuffs of her coral blouse, tugged at the hem of her grey suit jacket, and walked out the door.