My younger son considered the view as I raised the scarf with which I cover the near-naked skin of my scalp. There are but a few wispy strands of fluff and the stubborn remnants of the Tintin-esque fringe with which to cover my baldness. I am not one of those fortunate females on whom it looks like a style choice. Knowing Alex fairly well after a lifetime of being ‘Mum’, I could see both the unspoken grief as he registered the lingering effects of chemotherapy and the twitch of amusement.
We went with the latter.
“You look like an orangutan…”
“I like orangutans,” he added, hopefully, as if that might appease my wounded maternal vanity.
“He’s right,” said his older brother the following day, critically assessing the image on the screen during a video call. The son with whom I shared a love of the Discworld books…
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