Losing my Hair

Those who know me will eagerly tell you that I am very vain.  I am the kind of girl that doesn't even go to the gym without at least mascara.  I like my nails done. I like clothes that flatter my body (and show off the good parts!) I don’t like being overweight.  I wear lipstick daily and I have shoes for every outfit.  I have not yet mastered the level of confidence required to accept myself for who I am and to not be so concerned with outward appearance. And I really loved my hair.

It was long and thick and a rich chocolate brown. I loved brushing it and curling it and straightening it.  I wore it up and down and in braids and pigtails.  People would compliment my luscious locks and I would play the shy and quiet “Aw shucks” girl – but I secretly glowed with pride inside with every comment.

When I found out I would be getting chemotherapy I was more worried about being ugly than anything else.  I did not want to lose my hair.  I did not want to lose my lashes (I just got a new mascara after all!) I did not want to look sick.  I liked the way I looked and this just wasn't fair. But, being that I am Superman, I decided to own it.  I took the opportunity to chop it off and color it blond and pink (which I think I pulled off quite well, thank you very much!)

It started to fall out two weeks into my first treatment.  Sometimes it happens quickly, sometimes slowly.  It was a Wednesday morning when I first noticed it.  Then on Thursday I took off my sweater at work and there was a clump of pink on my shoulder.  And another in my car (which is STILL there by the way… sigh).  The worst was Friday when I finally washed it.  It came out in handfuls in the shower.  When I finally got up enough nerve to look in the mirror there were giant bald spots all over my head. I was home alone.  I poured a glass of wine, stood in the mirror and cried.

As a rule (… ok, ok...guideline), I generally only allow myself the briefest of poor-me moments, so within minutes I called K and L.  Being the amazing friends that they are, they headed over to my place to hold my hand and cheer me up.  My roommate got here first.  He took one look at me and my tears and said “Harden the @#%! Up!” as is his nature to do.  By the time the girls arrived he was charging his shaver.  We were going to shave my head and I was going to own it!

We had some fun that night.  We played some girl-power music (think Katy Perry and Spice Girls).  We had wine. We made videos and took pictures. I had a cute pink Mohawk at one point. I have fantastic friends who do all they can to try to help me to feel “normal” during this ordeal.  And they did a great job.

But when it was all over, no amount of music or laughter (or wine for that matter) could change the fact that I was now bald.  That I looked different now.  That I looked like a cancer patient.

I’d like to be able to say that in seeing myself without hair, the gravity of the diagnosis sunk in and that was why I got scared and sad and anxious.  But that would be untrue and I must tell the truth in this blog otherwise what’s the point?   I hated the way I looked.  Hated it.  People tell me I look fine – that I rock the bald – that I have a nice-shaped head – that I don’t look like a boy.  I don’t believe any of them.  I want my pretty hair back and I want it now. 

I hibernated.  I was completely thrown at how bad the depression took me that first week.  I mean, I thought I was ready.  I thought I had prepared myself for this.  I cut my hair super short so that I already looked drastically different from myself (or as my 6 year old nephew says, I looked like a stranger!) I avoided phone calls.  I didn't go to work.  I cried and felt sorry for myself. I had a full blown baby-lala pity party.  Luckily I had to pull myself together by the weekend for my second chemo treatment.

The next few weeks were filled with searching for the perfect head covering.  I tried the wigs (hot and itchy).  The headscarves made me feel like a pirate (hmmm… idea for Halloween?)  I wore bandannas a few times but I couldn't get over how much better I looked in a bandanna when I had hair! (You know that I-swear-I’m-not-even-trying-I-just-finished-gardening-I’m-really-just-this-cute look?) Some of the hats worked a little, but again I was too hot during the day (Dreadful hot flashes – but that will be a blog post for another day).  Fortunately, I met a lady at my third chemo treatment who unknowingly helped me put things in perspective.

This woman was in her early 50s and beautiful.  Bald as an eagle and rocking it.  She was on her third cancer – her 14^th chemo treatment.  She had been hairless for years.  She talked about the fun things she did with her girlfriends.  She talked about how people are super nice to you when you are a cancer patient.  She said when she is stuck in traffic she takes off her hat and people wave her in.  She told stories of hockey games and shenanigans and parties.  She told me how she organizes her pills by size and color because she can’t remember their names.  She laughed and she laughed and she laughed.

So here I was, depressive and angry and hiding from my life like a spoiled little child.  And there she was – on her fourteenth chemo treatment!  And still laughing, still staying positive, still having FUN!  It was humbling to say the least.  I was shamed.  What right did I have to linger in my silly little pit of despair over something so foolish? Who did I think I was feeling sorry for myself?  Why couldn’t I accept the fact that I AM a baldie – I AM a cancer patient and that it doesn’t matter what I look like?  At what point in my life did I start defining myself by my outward appearance and how could I change that attitude? 

The following Monday at work, I took off my hat.

I’d like to say that instantly I was changed - that I beamed with certainty and confidence and that I didn't care what anyone thought.  But enter the honesty piece again – I was considerably horrified.  I had to ask the girls to tell me I was fine.  I nearly panicked each time someone entered the trailer for fear that it was someone who hadn't seen me yet and would be freaked out by my appearance (as if everyone had remained magically unaware of my baldness in the weeks prior to the hat coming off!) But it was a step.  And each day since then I am more comfortable with the way I look.  I am learning (ok TRYING to learn) to accept things for what they are and avoid wishing for something impossible (like for example waking up with my beautiful brown tresses miraculously restored!) 

I have a very long way to go before I am able to fully let go of my foolish vanity.  But I am comforted in knowing that I took the first step – I took off my hat.