Don't Stare

Today at the gas station the attendant said "nice hair do, you do that yourself?" "Chemo, I said." And followed that up with "cancer treatment" by way of further explanation as English was not his first language. "What kind of cancer?" he asked. "Breast cancer," I replied.

And I kid you not, his eyes went down to my chest and he started tracing circles with his fingers on his own boy-breasts as he stared at mine. Obviously trying to figure out, in a not particularly stealthy fashion, exactly the state of my post-cancerous breast(s).

Um, ick. In fact I would go so far as to say it was really creepy.