Free Most of Me by Robyn Michele Levy

Penny Wheelwright, a Canadian documentary filmmaker, was working on Hair, There and Everywhere, a film exploring contemporary cultural attitudes toward body hair. She’d received one of my “I Ain’t No Shave Slave” greeting cards and gave me a call. Would I be interested in doing animation for her film, featuring this hirsute cartoon? Would I consider teaming up with hip-hop artist Kinnie Starr, who was composing original music for the film and wanted to set “I Ain’t No Shave Slave” to music? Would I like to be one of the hairy women interviewed in this film? I said yes to all three invitations.
    The documentary debuted prime time on CBC TV . Many people must have watched it, because strangers would do a double take when they saw me out in public, then give me that “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” look. Sometimes they connected the dots on their own; other times they needed prompting. But either way, they’d invariably say something like, “Hey, aren’t you that artist with the hairy armpits?”
    It turns out they all remembered me and my hair but not the animation or the theme song. But those tufts of hair are not why I’m here at Diane’s salon. All my life I have lived harmoniously with my minimustache, content to bleach it into peach-fuzz submission. But days after my diagnosis, a narcissistic neurosis infiltrated my mind. I’d look in the mirror and not only see an unsightly stash but also an unsightly future—where Parkinson’s has demoted me to diapers and dementia, where my nimble fingers fail to function, and where I am oblivious that my neglected whiskers have grown into a hideous handlebar mustache, which the staff at the nursing home trim, wash, and wax regularly. And so, in an effort to avoid this hairy humiliation, I submit my upper lip to Diane’s magical device—the Apilus Platinum—a needle-tipped pen she pokes into my hair follicles, then zaps with an electrical current. After this, she plucks out the damaged hairs with tweezers and triumphantly lays them to rest on a fresh tissue. Of course it hurts, leaves my skin red and inflamed for hours, and costs hundreds of dollars. But it’s a small price to pay for dodging the dubious distinction of being the first woman to join the exclusive Handlebar Club.
    Regrettably, electrolysis is not covered by my provincial health care plan. Neither are naturopathy, homeopathy, acupuncture, massage, physio, and counseling. This explains my dwindling bank balance and my wretched wardrobe. Who knew hope was so expensive? There are consultation fees, treatment charges, vitamins, purported remedies, specialty foods, blood tests, saliva analyses, exercise equipment, self-help books—all sold in the spirit of healing and purchased in the pursuit of a miracle.
    Still, there are unexpected perks to practically everything—even Parkinson’s disease. One day I discover that my disease is helping my neighbor cope with hers. Susan is a chatty, hardworking chartered accountant, and while some might consider her profession hazardous to one’s health, that’s not her disease. It’s breast cancer. She was diagnosed six months ago but never mentioned a word to me until yesterday, when I spilled the beans about my Parkinson’s. How she managed to keep two lumpectomies, radiation treatment, chemotherapy, and a bald head secret is beyond me. But now that we’ve each flaunted our afflictions, the floodgates have opened wide. So today, while I am walking Nellie, Susan confides that in a few days she will be back under the knife, this time for a double mastectomy and reconstructive surgery.
    â€œI’ve got the Dream Team,” she says, “a fantastic surgeon to take them both off and a fantastic plastic surgeon to install two brand-new ones, right away.”
    It takes me a few seconds to process this admission, and before I have a chance to respond, Susan