I Kinda Feel Like I Should Update the Hair Story

So, one year ago today, I went bald.

On said night, after we'd finished dinner, the husband made me undress and took me into the bathtub. While I sat there, on the edge of the tub, naked as a jaybird, he buzzed me with the clippers, taking any and all excess length off my head, of which, it must be said, there wasn't much. After a quickie shower, which washed my hair down the drain and off my neck, I got dressed again, and he then sat me down, on one of the dining room chairs he'd placed in front of the kitchen sink, lathered up my head with shaving cream and took a razor to whatever was left.

When he was finished (it took a while, because my scalp had never been shaved before and it proved somewhat reticent. Also, the husband, new to the task of shaving heads, didn't want to cut me, as well), we went into the bathroom to take a peek in the mirror, and that's when I started to cry in the husband's arms. I felt like Samson---completely vulnerable to attack. After a while, I wiped my eyes, put on the hat my sister had knit for me, and went out to the living room to be distracted by the tee vee. The husband, upset because I was upset, again made the offer to cut all of his hair off, so I wouldn't feel alone. I refused, mainly because I wanted to be able to play with his hair whenever I wanted to, and extracted that promise from him. (Bless him, he kept that promise, too.) While I was entirely horrified that I'd lost my crowning glory, I couldn't stop myself from feeling up my smooth head. It was weird, and it wasn't something I ever got over doing the five months I was without hair. If I was just sitting around, watching tee vee, it was guaranteed that that's where my hand was, feeling up my skull. It was normal for me to do this, I suppose, considering how much I played with my hair, when I had hair. I'd just substituted running my hand along my scalp, feeling the bone, trying to memorize all the bumps and curves, for making braids and twirling the locks.

Also, as it turns out, going bald brought back a second grade memory that I'd completely forgotten: one day, in the middle of winter, coming home from school, I decided to take a "shortcut" between two garages and sliced open the top of my head on a low hanging gutter. At the time, I hadn't realized that I'd done anything to myself, but by the time I'd reached home, I realized there was all this red stuff on my hooded green ski jacket. I couldn't figure out what it was. My memories of the event are foggy, but I must have freaked the ever living hell out of my mother when I walked in the back door. As it turns out, I'd cut open my scalp, through the hood of my coat, and had bled like a stuck pig from the inch-long gash. After a phone call to the doctor, the decision to not get stitches was cemented, because it wasn't bad enough to merit them, I was cleaned up and I went into the family room to watch cartoons. I remember eating an awful lot for dinner that evening, but I was fine overall, and the incident was soon forgotten.

Until I went bald, that is. While he was shaving my head, the husband wanted to know why I had a small scar on my scalp, and I was puzzled for a few moments until I remembered this incident. I was amazed and had to tell my mother and sister all about it. Ironically, a few weeks later, my niece, Maggie, cut open her head while she was horsing around at one of her brothers' baseball games, and despite all the blood (because, as I found out from a nurse friend that scalp wounds bleed like crazy) everyone comforted my sister, saying at least it was under her hair, so no one would notice. Christi told me she'd laughed and said, "Well, you never know about that. My sister just lost her hair from chemo, and she found..."

About every week and a half, the husband would get to shave me again, because white fuzz grew in small amounts on my head and, when it got to a certain length, it would start to catch on the scarves I wore. He got pretty good at this, and had it down to a routine before long. Every time a chair from the dining room would make it's way in front of the kitchen sink, where the husband would lather me up and would go to town, while I tried to watch the little tee vee we have installed in there without the benefit of my glasses. As you might have guessed, I wound up listening more than watching.

Fortunately, in the middle of August, one month after my last Taxol treatment, the hair started to grow back. It was earlier than I'd thought it would be, but it was just fine with me.

One year later, here's the progress report:

Yeah, I fully realize I look like a complete and utter spaz in this picture. All I can say is you try to take a decent picture of yourself, by yourself and see what you can come up with.

But, let's face it, I'm a complete and utter spaz...with hair. Which is good.

Yes, it came back in curly. That's par for the course, but it's not any curlier than what it was beforehand. Thank Goodness it didn't come back in as a fro. What I wasn't expecting is that the texture is now completely different. My hair used to be somewhat coarse, now it's fine. Unfortunately, that doesn't help in the frizz department, because it still erupts whenever it's wet. Sigh. I was hoping God was going to throw me a bone on this one, alas, however, He apparently has better things to do with his time than focus on my battle with frizz.

I hope I never have to go bald again because of chemo, because that would mean baaaaaad things regarding my future, but if it happens, I know I'll live. I won't be happy about it, but I doubt I'd be as traumatized as I was last time. And, if it happens, well, I won't have to spend a load of money on scarves and hats because I have a whole drawer full of them. If I had one thing to do over, I would get a wig. Not for vanity purposes, but simply because there were days when I would have enjoyed some privacy regarding my condition. That's all. A wig will only do so much to make you look normal if you already look ill. I just would have appreciated a few days where everyone wasn't privy to my business and a wig would have enabled that.

So, that's the hair update. I suspect that this might be the last one, my devoted Cake Eater readers. For which, I'm sure, more than a few of you might be grateful beyond all belief.

Posted by Kathy at May 7, 2008 01:13 PM | TrackBack