I’m sorry. The thing is that you stared at me a little bit too long. I have grown used to people staring at me, but not as long as you stared. It was Sunday morning. I was the woman behind you in the queue for the photo machine. I was the one wearing the headscarf. It seemed to catch your attention as you stared at it for some time. Unflinchingly.
I was the one who looked at the floor, waiting and waiting for you to stop. But you carried on staring. I had no choice but to speak.
I asked you, “What?”
No. Let’s be honest. I shouted it at you.
It was instinctive and angry. It sounded alien. I’m afraid I had no choice on the delivery. It served its purpose as it jolted you out of staring at me. You didn’t answer. You just turned and left.
I left too, with a bag of shopping, a lump in my throat, a red face and a racing, embarrassed heart. And then I cried. Not because of you, Tesco lady – you didn’t make me cry. It made me cry. The what made me cry.
I have grown used to wearing a headscarf, as have my astonishing family and friends, the parents, teachers and children in the playground. My milkman doesn’t look surprised when he sees me. Neither does the lovely man in the shop I visit every morning. And everyone at work? Well. After the initial shock of seeing me in my headscarf for the first time and once they understood that I wasn’t dying, that it was alopecia, they have all been tremendous.
Most importantly, my daughters don’t even see it any more. In fact, a lot of my youngest child’s teddies now have headscarves too. Her choice, her game, her way of normalising …
But gosh, I think it might be quite nice to be you. Refreshing almost. Not paying attention to social graces, not adhering to what you “should” do or how you “should” behave. How does that feel? Because I feel exhausted a lot of the time, what with all the respecting and observing of other people’s feelings and emotions. That can be tiring.
But this reflection back to when I met you has got me thinking – what if I hadn’t shouted? Would you have carried on staring?
What you could have done was walk away and say to your companion, “Poor girl”, which is a favourite reaction to me. That and the side-cock of the head manoeuvre with sad eyes, swiftly followed by the obligatory, “How are you?” I have grown accustomed to responding appropriately: a deep breath in and out as I hear “Poor girl” and a bright and breezy “I’m fine! Great, in fact! How are you?”
So, I am sorry. I was rude to shout but it was my anger. My anger with my alopecia. And that isn’t pretty. It isn’t pink, yellow or sparkly silver. It is black, bleak and ice cold. It is the inebriated, unwelcome, uncontrollable guest at a dinner party. It can suddenly rise dormant from the bottom of the ocean into a tidal wave without warning. But it can be fought. With forgiveness. With pity. With acceptance of a situation you can do absolutely nothing about as much as you want to with every single inch of your being.
Tesco lady. I forgive you for staring at me. I hope you forgive me for shouting. But next time you see someone who looks a little bit out of the ordinary (which I know I do but I’m trying so hard to rock the headscarf look every single day) maybe give this a go. Don’t stare. And maybe have the thought that you have no clue what is going on in someone’s life. As my mum taught me, it’s rude to stare.
And me? Well, I would do well to remember this Buddhist saying: “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else – you are the one who gets burned.”
Kirstie Smith
