| The Fashion Issue | Winter 2007 |
Costume Drama In case you haven’t heard, cancer is in style. Sheryl Crow, Melissa Etheridge, Farrah Fawcett—you can’t check out at the supermarket When I learned I had joined the cancer club, my first question naturally was: What do I wear? How can I imagine starring in my own made-for-TV movie about my inspiring battle with cancer unless I nail the costumes? An early lesson I learned as a cancer patient is that people will say you look fabulous no matter what. You could be wearing a potato sack. Or you could be wearing nothing at all—on your head anyway—in which case they say you should have embraced baldness much sooner, because your head is beautifully shaped. I could have taken my inspiration from movies or the theater: think Terms of Endearment or Wit. But I found those heroines decidedly unfashionable. Or I might have considered the jaunty, in-your-face, upbeat cancer patient images that some women choose. You know, the sweatshirts with angels, the wigs that make you resemble a gaunt hooker, the sequined cowboy hats. Perhaps I should have chosen the sophisticated Jackie O look. People magazine featured a photo of her walking through Central Park toward the end of her life. The elegant designer scarf, the trim trousers, the large sunglasses—she looked stylish even with cancer. For me, cancer treatment suddenly made chic seem attainable: After a double mastectomy and weight loss, a flat silhouette had replaced my Rubenesque figure. As soon as I could, I headed for the Gap and indulged in low-rise jeans. It was the most fashionable I had been in a long time—or so I thought until I learned that flares were so five years ago. After a month of recovery I returned to work looking like I had been on “Extreme Makeover.” Imagine a transformation from Bette Midler to Twiggy without the cheekbones. My colleagues, when they finally recognized me, simply gushed, “You look fabulous!” Indeed, for the formerly chubby, cancer-induced weight loss can feel like a blessing. At a neighborhood Christmas party, a nice grandmother who was unaware of my cancer diagnosis urged me, “Eat, eat! You are the skinniest person here!” Well, I wasn’t the thinnest one there, but imagine my elation. I have never been the skinniest person in any room, ever. I could have savored the image of myself sipping martinis like the chic Holly Golightly—if only I had had hair, eyelashes, and eyebrows. The Crowning Glory Ever the brave cancer lady, I refused to let my hair loss bother me. The barber made a house call to cut off my hair before the rest of it fell off in clumps. My kids loved my step-by-step transformation from a Mohawk, to a Hare Krishna ponytail, and finally to the bald dome of Dr. Evil. I howled with laughter while trying on a series of ridiculous wigs, and I finally settled on one I hoped was flattering. Once again, my supportive friends agreed: I looked fabulous! After assuring me that it didn’t look like a wig, they added, cheerily, that when my hair grew back I should adopt that style. Not everyone joined in the you-look-fabulous conspiracy, though. The first day I ventured into the office wigged out, a stylish coworker asked, “Have you thought about wearing a scarf instead?” When no snappy sitcom retort came to mind, I fled to the bathroom, futilely tried to adjust my wig, and fought the urge to cry. But I did discover one advantage of wigs: They don’t scream out “cancer patient” the way scarves do. Women don’t wear scarves tied artistically around their skulls unless they are undergoing chemo or just had a facelift. A friend who flew across the country in a scarf had to endure a stranger’s friend-of-a-friend’s gory cancer story before reluctantly reciprocating. For the return trip, she donned a Catherine Zeta-Jones wig and no one bothered her. project runway The cancer patient makeover does have benefits at times. One friend wore bandanas all summer because she loved it when cancer survivors hugged her. Another friend figured if she got caught speeding, she could always whip off her wig and tell the officer she was racing to chemo. One day she saw flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror—and her plan worked. My ordeal gave me fresh ideas for Halloween. Flat-chested flapper was one; a family of bald pirates was another. My children wouldn’t budge from their original costume plans, but my husband humored me with a bald cap, sword, and eye patch. My new look gave me a fresh way to induce guilt as well. One morning, as I was climbing back into bed after dropping my kids off, the phone rang. When I answered, the school nurse launched into a lecture about my trying to sneak my feverish son into school by dosing him with Tylenol. I went to pick him up au naturel—pasty, bald, wrinkled, and skinny—and found the stricken look on her face satisfying. worse for wear Women certainly have an advantage when it comes to provoking sympathy as needed. But men, who can be as vain as women, are expected to be stoic. They also have fewer fashion options. If they wear a wig, they resemble Liberace. Pencil in some eyebrows and it’s Prince. And a bandana only makes them look like they’re auditioning for Bruce Springsteen’s band. They’re best advised to stick with baseball caps, Stetsons, or the preppy fishing hats that Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake wore in M*A*S*H. Weight loss gives men other fashion challenges. On women, loose clothing looks flowing and relaxed, but men can resemble Barney Fife, Mayberry’s deputy sheriff, as they cinch their waistbands with a belt that nestles somewhere near the armpits. At a formal event, the cancer guy can look like Talking Heads’ David Byrne in the Big Suit, with shoulder pads jutting out over a skinny frame. Women invest every ounce of their remaining strength in shopping for their new size, and men should follow suit. One man who tackled the cancer look well was Lance Armstrong, who made cancer thin a new fad. He also launched the plastic bracelet craze that has raised millions for cancer research. Great idea, but do the bracelets have to be yellow? A flash of canary may look good on the Tour de France leader as he whooshes past, but as a fashion color, yellow is tough: You can see it for miles, and it turns many people sallow. Each disease now has its own colored bracelet, as if we’re all birds that have been tagged for field studies on migratory patterns. My tag is pink, which some cheerful person picked for breast cancer. I am dismayed to have had a disease that compels me to receive and wear pink items all the time—hats, T-shirts, socks, bracelets. On one trip I took, flight attendants were even selling pink lady cocktails in honor of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month. No thanks; I’ll take a beer. I’m not a brave cancer lady in pink. It’s just not my color. So I was thrilled to receive a new cancer accessory called Mel’s Bracelets, which are sold in memory of Mel Simmons, a breast cancer patient who was treated at Massachusetts General Hospital. Not only are these simple strings of colorful beads not pink, but they also benefit the hospital’s cancer center, where I received my treatment. In the end, though, I found my most important costume was the one that could ensure my cure. Superstitious thinking is an important part of cancer treatment. So my fashion statement included Superwoman undies, a black sweatsuit, earrings from my husband, and a necklace strung with patron saint medals for each of my four children. This ensemble became my talisman for every chemo treatment and doctor’s appointment. So far it has worked for my breast cancer. And there’s something else that has worked. Every time someone tells me I look fabulous, I believe it. Janice Hayes-Cha is executive director of the MassGeneral Institute for Neurodegenerative Disease. Photo: Brad Wilson/Photonica/Getty Images |
without seeing a celebrity with cancer on the cover of a gossip magazine. It’s right up there with the prenuptial baby bumps.
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