Oh Hair!

I was not one of those women whose first thought at diagnosis was “I don’t want to lose my hair.” No, not even close.  My first thought was “I don’t want to die.”  My hair was not a real concern, not at all.  I didn't think about my hair at all until the first time I found out I was getting chemo back in December and even then I didn't dwell on it.  Sure, every time I go to the hospital and see a bald woman I get a little freaked out, a pixie cut even induced panic in me once.  All those bald heads were just a reminder of cancer.  It meant they were sick.

Sunday:

On Friday my hair started to come out in clumps.  Exactly 7 days before my wedding.  Are you kidding me hair?  Seriously?  I've made it through the weekend with an eerily calm veneer about losing my hair and especially so close to the wedding.  But as I look in the mirror tonight and pull out yet another giant clump of hair, suddenly my calm veneer is shattered and I’m scared and crying.  I’m trying to gather my strength to make the leap into a shaved head and I feel I’m failing at it.  I suddenly realize why.  It’s not the hair, not physically; it’s what it stands for.  Pride.  I've had so much pride that I've been receiving chemotherapy for seven months and still had my long hair.  I've convinced myself that my sheer stubbornness has kept it attached.  I’m also scared of how people will look at me now.  I don’t want sad cancer girl stares.  Up until now people look at me and see someone who is strong and healthy and says she has cancer but she sure doesn't look like it.  I don’t look like a cancer patient.  I look like a warrior with my braided hair and my red lips.  I don’t want that to change.  I don’t want to look like a patient.  The patients freak me out.  Will I freak myself out every time I look in the mirror?  Will I be able to see past the bald head?  Will everyone else?

I realize my fear is that with a bald head you wear your cancer card on your sleeve.  It is no longer your choice to whip out the card as needed.  I’m clinging to control or the illusion of control.  Cancer takes so much control away from you.  You feel like your body has betrayed you and this is just one more way.

Thankfully I purchased a wig already.  It looks pretty good but I can’t keep myself from being upset that I won’t be wearing it 24/7.  I can’t wear it while cooking, or by the pool on our honeymoon cruise, or to bed at night.  I’m scared I won’t be able to look in the mirror without crying.  I don’t want to see cancer when I look at myself.  I just want to see me.

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And so it takes another four hours (and an Ativan) before I gather my nerve to tell Sean, it’s time.  I gather my hair into one last braid and have him make the cut.  I lay the braid out in front of me, its disconnect final.  He starts to chop away the remaining hair, leaving a little bang in the front.  Surprisingly, we are able to laugh about it.  I fear the sound of the buzzer and have him buzz it just a little too long the first go round.  I need baby steps.  He goes over it a second time with a shorter buzz and we decide it should be short enough.  I still worry, will patches appear and I’ll look like a pineapple?  Will I wake up to a pile of short hairs on my pillow? I have to put that out of my head, he can always buzz it again.  When he finishes he tells me I’m beautiful.  I’m not sure I believe him.  I don’t want to look.

But I have to look and when I do, I see GI Jane staring back at me with a tear streaked face.  I’m ok. I’m ok. I’m ok. I walk past the dog and he barely glances at me.  I guess he approves.  The whole family now has the same haircut.

Tuesday:

It is now Tuesday and I've made it through an entire day with my newly shaved head and I’m okay.  I feel like a fraud with my wig on and I worry I’ll forget my hair at home when running out of the house.  I’m happy to not be pulling it out in clumps anymore though.  This is just one more aspect of cancer that has changed my “normal” and like everything else, I’m adjusting and it will be okay.