“Flow it. Show it. Long as God can grow it. My Hair!” — from Hair, The Musical

When you are told you have Cancer, you worry about a lot of things like family, holidays, experiences you want to have but haven’t gotten around to yet, medical bills, work, dying, living, research, needles, and a thousand other things at various times and in no particular order.  When I was told, that list included hair. Honestly, it was somewhere in the Top 10. Would I have chemo? Was I going to lose my hair? How do I really feel about wigs? I was very focused on the hair. I could say that it’s because the brain likes to focus on things it can handle. And, hair… I’ve been dealing with that for 45 years, so it’s not a foreign concept.  And, it’s important…sort of.

In no way, in my opinion, is hair more important than living, healing, family, longevity, or any of that. But hair is a big deal.  With newborn babies, we comment on the hair. “So much hair!” “Cute little bald baby!” “Got her mama’s hair!”  As teens we obsess about it…styles, length, curls or not, bangs or not, what do the magazines say? Even as adults our hair is frequently a topic of conversation:  how much gray, should I color it, does she color it, short or long, more fun with red heads (yes),  are bald men really sexier? (usually) Hair is often how I identify someone to pick them out of a crowd. A changed hairstyle makes us do a double-take when we see friends after a too-long absence. It’s just ever present. Even when it’s not present.  What’s happening on the top of our head is just … out there… for all to see.  

My hair has been many things over the years. Curly, straight, different colors, partly shaved, funky style, cool, nerdy, Dorothy Hammel!, and that frizzy mess that was going on in junior high.  I’ve loved it and I’ve hated it, but I’ve always had control over it (except junior high)…or enough product to pretend control.  I think that’s one reason why, when I was told “chemo,” I worried about my hair.  I like control, and this I would not be able to control. 

For some reason I decided early on: no wigs. I don’t have anything against a wig, it’s just not for me…like ruffles. They aren’t me. I would tell people, “I have cancer, there’s going to be a lot of chemo, I will lose my hair, I won’t wear a wig.”  Like it mattered. It just became a thing that I had to get out in the open. I thought I was cool with it. I was going to handle this no-hair thing with grace…or at least a sassy attitude.  I mean, the bald Sinead O’Connor was cool in my youth.  Bald can rock!

I was told my hair would probably start to go about 2-3 weeks after treatment started.  It was just about 2 weeks when I found the first group of hairs on a pile of papers in front of me during a meeting.  After casually brushing them aside, I spent the rest of the meeting distracted by the possibility that hair would just start falling off my head in front of this person.  It didn’t. The next morning, my shower drain was a mess, though. Have I mentioned that among my pet peeves and things that disgust me are wet hairs? Eww. I’d have to clean the shower drain each shower.  It was the morning that the hair actually kept the water from draining that changed things.

At this point, I had established that I would not lose my hair with any grace.  Logic told me that it had to go. Hairs that seemed so short on my head, were monstrous in my hands when they fell out.  Emotion told me I was going to have a gigantic, fat head and never be happy again.  My inner control freak told me I just had to get it over with. “Don’t let the chemo win,” said the control freak. Kathy (the sane one, who does not have conversations in her head) called my hair stylist, who had previously offered to help when this time came.  She could see us in an hour.

Me to my boss: I need to go out, I’m not sure I’ll be back.
Boss: Are you okay?
Me: Yes, but my hair is falling out.
Boss: Go. You need a wellness afternoon.

So I went.

Afterward, I figured I’d go home and mope around and have a little pity party.  Instead, I was okay with it.  I tied a scarf around my head and got on with my day. Rather anticlimactic for all the drama beforehand.  Still, I think I needed to mourn the loss of the hair. 

But, it’s not just the hair on my head. I will lose ALL my hair. Think about it: ALL the hair. Think of every place there’s hair on your body…and think of it gone. Some of this is good: a break of shaving legs especially during shorts weather and the money savings now that I won’t have to have eyebrows and mustache waxed — not to mention not having the related owwie.  Some is weird: no nose hairs and, without eyebrows and eyelashes (I have good eyelashes, damn it) that’s when I’ll have the “cancer” look.  No more will I be able to pass off the lacking head of hair and assortment of hats as the fashion choice of someone much cooler than I aactual am. Instead, I will look like I have cancer. 

It will grow back, yes.  But, in the meantime, it is the most visible cue that I have a thing trying to attack me. Forgetting about it during the good days becomes harder. I think that is why people who lose their hair due to chemo have such a hard time with it.  We all know it will come back, but during the time it is gone, it’s a constant reminder of the thing you work at forgetting because you’re still trying to, and encouraged to, live your normal life. 

I’m okay. My friend Jane said it can be liberating, and I agree that taking control of it with clippers was just that. So, it’s okay. But, I reserve the right to mourn for my eyelashes later on.  And, someone may have to teach me how to do make-up for a bald head — they don’t teach that in Cosmo.  Not that I read Cosmo, but it’s not in Sunset Magazine either.