The image above depicts a strong, confident, bald-beauty. Yes, that's me. The hair removed by my own hand using shaving cream and a razor, in my own bathroom, merely moments before the picture was taken. I was proud! My face still slim, my eyelashes and eyebrows more prominent than before.
Weeks later, I would loose the hair everywhere on my body.
Let me back up, as this timeline is a bit hairy. Prior to my cancer journey my hair was thick and curly. Putting it lightly. For some with wavy or curly hair, you can still straighten it or mold it within minutes. With mine, if I wanted to straighten it for a day, it required waking up two hours early. The last thirty minutes of the two hours was me getting dressed, eating, and out the door.
Needless to say, I took the curl and luscious hair atop my head for granted. When reviewing with the Doctor the chemotherapy regimen I was to undergo, I remember a sensation of conflict building within me. At first I attributed this to fear of death versus fear of being sick all the time. I then was horrified at myself when I began to realize the true, and real absurdity, of the conflict; hair versus no hair.
I could not believe I was honestly fixated on this vain and shallow image of myself. Why did my hair matter when my whole body was trying to kill me?
I decided to take this in steps. For some reason my mind would not allow me to merely chop it all off before starting chemotherapy. No, of course it chose inducing more anxiety instead of "preventative" measures. Thus, I went to my childhood hairdresser who, without saying a word, seemed to understand my conflict and empathized. She was fantastic as always. Reminding me that this is a new me. A step toward choosing courage through the times ahead. One simple cut meant one big stride toward taking control of the uncontrollable.
Tears slowly streamed my cheeks as I wept for the loss. The loss of the living strands that had been apart of my adolescent life. This became momentous for me as it signified the loss that was yet to come.
Although the first round of chemotherapy remains a blur to me, I vaguely remember a conversation regarding my short locks still intact. This occurred between myself, my husband at the time, and my mother. My mother and I had begun to discuss the potential of shaving my head down to a cut resembling a new military recruit headed into boot camp: fuzzy and close to the skin. Just to give me some sense of control as my world began to fade in and out thanks to the regimen.
When bringing this up to my husband, there was some, well let's say, push back. It seemed as if he could not stomach the thought of a bald wife. I do believe he tried, he also just didn't want to admit to the world that his wife was gravely ill. It was due to his fears and insecurity that I waited a while longer, stewing in my anxiety.
Finally, I could not take it any longer. After my second round of chemotherapy I was admitted to the hospital for a few days. I honestly can't remember why. I do remember that my immune system was so low that any nurses, doctors, or visitors had to wear a special "party" dress and gloves to come in and see me. It was in the hospital that I remember thinking "enough is enough." My mom had agreed and jumped at the chance to talk it over with the wonderful nurses as they had become invested in this decision during my time with them.
So much so, they found a shaving set, sterilized it and brought it to my room for my mom and husband to take turns shaving my head right there in the hospital.
This felt so freeing! I was back in control of my own body, well the top of my head at least.
Until the night I got home from the hospital one day later. I was talking with my husband about my fears I was having and why I had wanted to shave it off when all of sudden I reached behind my head, grabbed a small tuff, and it came out in my fingers. I brought it around to my face and cried out. In fear, aggravation, or utter sadness, I am not sure. All three emotions, and then some, most likely. I went into the nearby hall bathroom and proceeded to hover my head over the sink while my husband placed his hands each side of my head and began to shake out any loose hairs. Come to discover, all the hairs were loose.
I just cried. I could not think. I was so tired. Drained to the point of collapsing. He assisted me with putting on a fleece army issued beanie he had in his ruck sack. This helped ease the fear of waking up to an unwanted breakfast of hair in mouth from remnants on my pillow.
The next morning, I was in a chair at the local Great Clips, getting my head shaved down as low as they were allowed to shave it. As this still left some hair, my mother and I left the hair salon on a mission for a brand new razor and good smelling shaving cream.
Arriving home, I rushed upstairs and while my mom sat on my bed, I lathered my head and proceeded to rid it of its deceitful coat.
From that day on, I would dream of when I could twirl my fingers through my own hair again. Rub my head and fill the weight of each strand as it remained firmly attached within its follicle.
I found ways to have fun with this new found look. Wearing great hats and learning to tie scarves intricately around my now bare noggin. Even went so far as to have a friend paint gorgeous lotus flowers on my head and then we all went to dinner. I had a little girl sitting in the booth behind me at dinner and she poked the back of my head thinking the flowers were tattoos. Her surprise at herself for touching a strangers head made the hair loss experience worth it for me.
My hair since then has returned in all of its luscious thickness and curl. Short still as I continue to tame it and mold it into this new life we share together, post-cancer.
Hair is a defining physical trait. This may go without saying for some. But for me, I truly understand this concept now. It is a defining PHYSICAL trait. It does not define ones character or personality, unless you let it. This thought can extend to other physical traits.
Just because there is a feature about yourself you like more than other features, does not mean that should define you. Tend to your outlook on life. Tend to your soul. Care for your physically body, yes. Keep it healthy and thriving. But do not let this be the focus of your life.
The body holds within it the true feature of value: you.
With hope,
Anndi