When most people tell you they’re pulling their hair out, it’s an expression. With the chemo crew, it’s pretty literal. Yet another of those Twilight Zone/Oz moments comes when you realize that not only does your hair HURT, but if you touch it, you’re going to shed worse than a Persian cat in July in Alabama. On top of that, it’s not only a constant pain, but you get tinglie, crawlie feelings that sometimes BITE! If you run your fingers through the bite spot, you pull away big huge patches. That part doesn’t hurt in the least. In fact, it’s a relief. How weird is THAT?
So, after having reached the point of no return, in pulling my hair out by the tuft-fuls for two days, my daughter finally gets her wish. I’m “bald, bald as a ping-pong ball, bald.” She, of course, inherits my headbands, which is what her Machiavellian 3 year old mind is really after.
What my husband is after, I dunno. But he was READY for this in a big way. Last night he repeatedly told me that it’s time for the shave. He even offered to do it himself tonite after work if that’s the route I wanted to take. I thought maybe I’d looked too much like my mother in the last cut. In this cut, I’m thinkin’ it may be my grandmother. But the next one? There’s nowhere to go except my brother’s look; straight out of boot camp!
To tell you the truth, I was ready too tho. I know there are a lot of people out there going through this who are really having a beastly time with the concept of losing the hair. I did too for awhile, so please, please don’t feel bad about that. It’s a hard thing, just like all the rest of this. I’m glad I took my time and got it cut in increments. I’m glad Christine and I played around and laughed with each stage. I’m glad everyone in the family got to goof off with each new look and then try out another for a week. I’m glad the people that love me let me have a cry for vanity, one for comfort, one for insecurity, one for unfairness, one for the stares I’ll get and at least one for the ramblings of my imagination. But, I’m all done now, so what was left to do?
I piled poor Auntie A into the car and went to see a very jittery Christine. Auntie A was rehearsing speeches in her mind all the way over. I could almost SEE the print scrolling across her forehead. She won’t lie to me, you see. She will, however, attempt to spare me, in whatever honest manner she can find. For example, I asked her the other day if the chemo brain was as bad as I thought. She smiled at me with her most winning grin, full of sunshine and mischief and said, “Honey, I love you.” So, I now know two things. One, the chemo brain is MUCH worse than I thought; and two, Auntie A loves me anyway. (I’m telling you this woman is amazing.) So, I can only imagine what she was trying to steel herself against this time. Bless her heart, she does like to be prepared.
Poor Christine was even worse. She could barely keep from wringing her hands. She didn’t even try to stop herself pacing and jumping like she’d been bitten every time any one spoke. We had kind of planned to do it at closing or at home in the first place, maybe a ceremonial drink, an impromptu party, something to mark the day and spend some time with some really cool people. We just ran out of “feel good days” and had to work on the fly. Unsettling for anyone, but Christine really cares. It was hard on her. And I had half promised her beer to get her through it in the first place. At 10:30 in the morning, however, I didn’t think she’d REALLY need it. Bless her heart, she was so concerned about me, she DID need it.
Like every other stage of this debacle, however, there comes a time when the quality outweighs the quantity and it’s time to let go. When that time comes, you know and you just do it.
I don’t know if the other hairdresser and customer in the shop were holding their breaths or not, but I’m quite sure the three of us were. Auntie A snapped some pics at different stages, the other customer hollered over that it looked pretty darned good, we all had a few laughs, shared a hug and that was that. (Since Christine wouldn’t let me pay her, I snuck a six pack onto the porch of her shop with a note. She should at LEAST get that out of the deal, tho I’m afraid I might’ve wrecked her for the rest of the day!)
I honestly don’t care how it looks– tho I don’t think it’s all that bad. It’s just details. I’m still in here. I’m still me—everyone, including me, has proven that during the darkest hours of chemo. The hair is just another SE (side effect) of that, albeit a visible one.
Seriously tho. I walk like I’m 80, barely get out of the house intact, alternate between grey and yellow when I do, and generally look like I haven’t slept in about 6 weeks. Ya kinda had to know something was up with me before this. Really. My bald head is just not that shocking. And since I am not my cancer, nothing has really changed.
So, pour yourself a glass of whatever you crave and drink cheers To Christine who literally pulled it off! –To Auntie A, who didn’t have to use her practiced lines but would have. –To each of you for being out there reading. And what the heck! –To me. I’m FINALLY having a good hair day. The pain is GONE and I feel WONDERFUL.
(Now I need more lemon water. See what you made me do?…)