I would wake up each day and tug my hair to see if it was still
attached to my head. It had become some sort of odd ritual
for me. I knew my hair was going to come out, but when the
chemo nurses had started commenting on how thick my hair still was,
I made it into a contest.
What was the contest? In hindsight, the contest was clearly all
about who was winning....was it the cancer, or was it me?
I know I can be stubborn. When I was told I required pre-op
chemo, I immediately made the decision to cut my hair several
inches shorter. My stubborn streak was screaming at me to
take control. If I got rid of my hair by choice, then I beat
the cancer to the punch.
Sounds relatively easy in theory, doesn't it? It's just
hair, right?
Wrong. So VERY wrong.
We tried to get excited about it and approach the haircut as a
makeover. Together, my husband and I looked through the
magazines and picked out a cute style.
Through teary eyes, I told the stylist about the situation and
asked her to please save a lock of my hair. The stylist
agreed, but started to put a razor to my long, straight,
free-of-frizz hair.
Giant tufts of hair soon covered the floor. I had stopped
talking minutes ago, and watched in silence as she grabbed a broom
to sweep my hair into a plastic baggie.
Twenty minutes later, the stylist proudly announced that she was
finished. I lifted my eyes to see my reflection and felt
tears roll down my cheeks.
The moment was strangely like the scene from "Steel
Magnolias." Julia Robert's character has her
hair cut short, and when she sees it for the first time she can
only say, "Oh my....."
The stylist was clearly aware she had suddenly become an enemy in
my eyes (simply because she was responsible for cutting my hair
off), and began to ramble, "It'll grow back before you
know it, good thing it is only hair, right?"
Wrong. So VERY wrong.
Thanksgiving day arrived, and I took a shower. As I washed my
hair, I realized my hands were full of clumps of hair.
WRONG! SO VERY FREAKING WRONG!
I must admit, it is fascinating to see your hair come out so
easily. I could have had my husband blow on my scalp and hair
would come out.
Time to take control again! I found a salon in town that
specialized in women with cancer-related alopecia. The
appointment was made to shave my head the next day.
My husband and 15 month old son joined me that day as we all
crowded into the private room the salon owner had just for cancer
patients. The owner was wonderful, offering me tissues and
hugging me while I sobbed.
"Please turn the chair around. I don't want to watch
you do this."
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ......the clippers began to do their job, and
although I was turned away from the mirror, I watched short tufts
of my hair fall gently to the ground. My son had taken
residence on the floor next to my chair, and I had an odd vision of
my hair falling around him like snow.
"Do you want to see? I'm done."
"No. Please cover it." I held out the crisp,
white hanky hat I had brought (purchased a few days prior).
The salon owner handled the next two minutes better than I could
have possibly hoped. She took the hat from my trembling hand,
but first told me, "Feel your head."
Gently and carefully, she took my hand and held it to my now
prickly scalp. I cringed, and she put the hat on my
head.
This entire time, my husband sat in silent support. The salon
owner turned to him and said, "Tell your wife she is
beautiful."
I know it felt awkward for him to say those words in the first two
minutes he met my bald alter-ego, but when he said it, I looked at
my reflection in the mirror.
"OH MY G*D!!!!" I sobbed heaving and loud sobs and
felt my husband hug me, and my son tug at my leg.
It really isn't JUST hair, but I NEEDED to keep going. I
forced myself to go out to lunch with my son, wearing that stupid
1950's-looking white hanky hat. I felt as if I had a neon
sign on my head that blinked, "CHEMO!
CHEMO!"
For the next two days, I absolutely REFUSED to look at my
bald head. I would NOT show my family my head and wore a
very hot velour hat non-stop.
On day 3, I couldn't stand the discomfort. I couldn't
stand the fact that I felt self-conscious around my husband and
son. I will never forget the first time I went
"topless" in front of my son.
"Honey? Mommy has to show you
something....."
My son looked up at me while I pulled the hat from my head.
He giggled, reached up and rubbed my prickly scalp, and continued
to play with his toys.
Hmm......to a toddler, it really IS just hair!
It took me months to evolve and grow in confidence. By the
time I finished chemo in May, I had decided it was time to say
good-bye to "Mommy's head-things," as my son called
them. With what appeared to be a receding hairline, and
patches of fuzz all over my head, I wore my new "hair-do"
with enormous pride. It was like a battle wound for
me.
As my fuzzy head continued to grow, I struggled with the phenomenon
known as "chemo-hair." My hair was suddenly curly,
frizzy, and gave me an enormous flip on only one side of my head so
I'd look like the "Crazy Cat Lady." I'd put
at least 6 styling products in my hair each day and scream in
annoyance at the crazy flip that would reappear no matter what I
did.
In those moments of annoyance, I would consider shaving my hair
back down to the closely-cropped hair I had been cursing all
along.
After all, it's only hair, right?
