My Russian Nurse came by today to give me my post-chemo shot. He'd been my daily visitor for three weeks following my lumpectomy, so we’d already got to know each other a little bit. And I mean a bit. He got to see me droopy and half naked, while I barely got to see him crack a smile. He’s very good looking, in a tall blond tennis player kind of way. But he’s got the steely glare, and the Russian accent, which makes him the kind of villainous tennis player in a James Bond Film who’d lob a 300 mph tennis ball at Bond's head, in order to temporarily stun him so he could be taken, live, onto the Russian yacht for questioning.
"Why you wear wig?” The nurse demands. I tell him that I have no hair. He nods impatiently, then asks why I’m wearing it at home. I mutter something, and he says he’d like to see my head. Since he’s already seen so much of me, I take off my wig and beanie. “Much better. More stylish,” says he. As a compromise, I leave off the wig, but replace the beanie. Firstly, my head is cold. And secondly, I’m reluctant to take fashion advise from a man whose country has rarely produced a figure skating outfit that isn’t covered in fake diamonds and fur.