Buy Now Pay Later Wig Catalogs ~REPACK~
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Two months later, though, I'm the one with the impossiblepost-chemo-therapy hair and wishing I were a man or an African Americanwoman who could carry off the Mia Farrow look without eliciting pitifulhalf-smiles from strangers. My extremely supportive husband tells methat it looks good, that I should ditch the super-straight and longwigs I had been wearing for the past several months. But I'm not readyto field the queries from my own patients, who have just gotten used tothe wigs, and have finally stopped saying, "Your hair looks GREAT! Whatdid you do to it?" A patient I've always been close to persisted: "INEED to know what you did to your hair! Is it something illegal?"
Four years later, the radiation, the blood counts, and the wigs feellike a movie I must have seen but began to forget as soon as I walkedout of the theater. I have taken to blow-drying my hair twice a week toachieve the straight look that in the past I could only get from asalon (or a wig). I am somehow finally at peace with it (although lessso in the summer, when the humidity laughs at my half-hour of pullingand brush angling, and frizzes me out in mere seconds.)
For years, I've been too much a creature of the night. Fatigued at nine p.m., I'd drag off to bed early, only to pop awake hours later for an all-night round of yo-yoing in and out of shallow slumber. Sometimes for hours I'd haunt the darkened house alone like some doomed wraith. I'd watch infomercials on TV, write, or stare out a window, hoping that something amazing would happen out there in the silent gloom. Maybe I'd get to sleep, maybe I wouldn't, but I'd almost always feel the lack during the day. In the afternoon, I'd be enveloped by a gray fatigue, almost palpable in its texture. I'd either be forced to nap or to spend the rest of the day fighting to stay productive. Coffee was out; my middle-aged digestive tract rebels against the stuff. And anyway, coffee seemed somehow a cheat. I sensed something was wrong with my sleep habits that chemicals wouldn't fix.
The only nightcap for sleep, Edinger says, is one worn on the head. "Sure, alcohol will put you to sleep, but it's not very good sleep. Alcohol's a depressant from which you get a rebound that causes you to have broken sleep later." In fact, he says, sleep problems are a major block to quitting drinking. "When alcoholics abstain, they have sleep disturbances, which makes them more likely to relapse."
Artists who painted mummy coffins did not sign their work, but the person who decorated Meresamun's cartonnage certainly left his (or her) mark. On each side of Meresamun's head, there are dribbles of blue paint that extend beyond the outline of her wig. With the coffin set on its back while the artist worked, the paint must have dried that way. The artist either rushed the job--or didn't expect anyone would be critiquing the creation some 3,000 years later.
Editor's note: In 1996, Emory won its first ever national debate championship, and at the end of the fall 1997 semester, Emory's debate team was ranked number one in the nation. While those recent accomplishments are considerable, debating at Emory has a successful tradition that stretches back more than a century. Emory Magazine recently received the following essay from David A. Lockmiller '27C-'28G-'54H concerning his experiences with forensics and literary societies while studying at Emory in the 1920s. Lockmiller went on to practice law and later served as president of the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga and Ohio Wesleyan University. His debate partner during a tour in 1927, the year in which the Mississippi River delta region was hit with devastating floods, was Reginald W. McDuffee '27C-'28L. McDuffee became a prominent lawyer in Savannah where he also served for several years as judge of the bankruptcy court. McDuffee died in 1991.
We do know she was abandoned by her mother when she was only a few hours old, left at the gates of a London park wrapped in a sack, then rescued by a young London police constable who, in bitter weather, saw her and heard "the crying of wolves." Whether there really were wolves in London in the 1850s is disputed by those he tells, but the baby's foot was certainly bleeding, as if it had been chewed. He takes her to the Foundling Hospital at Coram Fields where, much later, she is horribly abused by a vindictive nurse.
Back in 1998 I created a photographic series comprised of 20 female friends wearing the same red-haired wig, which I occasionally worn going out or strolling the streets in New York City. I was not only exploring the city, but also myself looking for possibilities and identities within this anonymous space.Wearing the wig made me not only look differently but also changed my perception through people looking at me in curious ways.Asking my friends to pose with the wig gave the whole project yet another touch and let me look at them the same way I was scrutinized by others. They indeed seemed to become another person just by wearing this hair. Our conversations drifted into different directions than usual and the mutual observations were fruitful on both sides.Almost 20 years later I altered the photographs (which back then I had developed and printed myself)using collage and paint techniques to change my Divas into anonymous portraits, aliens made of photoshoped parts from women's magazines, transforming them into manipulated objects, partly molested and fingered, sometimes at ease or touched gently.I was and still am testing different qualities of identification and relationship with this work and since change is inevitable I am curious how I will approach the subject ten years from now.
This sort of thing makes me wonder what realities the future holds in store for me. Are the tacky items from the catalogs in the bathroom going to come to life and appear in my home? Will the weird old roommate I was wondering about suddenly be seized with a desire to visit me? Will I finally win the lottery? 041b061a72