The day it became real

This post isn't related to writing, so please skip it if you don't want to hear what it was like to lose my hair after my first chemo treatment last year.

“Ouch.” She winced as she yanked the strip of wax away from her temple in one fast, smooth jerk. Another section of smooth white skin was revealed as she blinked her watering eyes in reaction. Less painful than a Brazilian, she thought to herself, but no less disturbing.

Staring at her reflection in the large bathroom mirror she ran her hand over the smooth dome of her head for about the millionth time and sighed. Her large eyes and pink cheeks stood out more than usual. She looked like an alien. If her eyebrows abandoned ship she would look like a large, annoyed baby. Not exactly the look most women aspired to, but she didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter.

Her hair was falling out. And waxing it off was just a pre-emptive strike to avoid watching large hanks of it drift down around her shoulders every time she ran a comb through the formerly long, brown strands. Or she could wake up to a pile of it on her pillow every morning. Feeling it slithering down her back as she went about her daily business of living was also an option.

 There was no escaping it. The chemo therapy was finally taking its toll.

She’d been on her way out to dinner with friends when it began. She’d innocently stepped out of the shower and looked back to see an absolute thicket of hair floating on top of the water as it drained.

 She’d known she was going to face this eventually, but she hadn’t expected such a dramatic physical manifestation of her treatment quite so soon. She had convinced herself she had weeks before she’d have to face this particular loss. But once again, the unexpected had happened and she had started looking like Squiggy from Laverne & Shirley in what felt like no time at all.

That night, just over a week ago, she’d fished out the offending hairball and went about her business of getting ready as usual. She was in complete denial. By the time she’d dried and styled her hair she had a virtual topiary hedge of hair around the sink. There was no denying it. This would be the last night she went out looking like herself for a very long time. Six months at least. She made an appointment to get it cut the next day.

Unfortunately, getting it cut short did not slow down the process much. She’d thought the bizarre Dorothy Hamill transitional style would preserve it a bit longer. She had no idea why she’d thought this. Less weight on the hair shaft, she told herself. But she was just grasping at straws. Or hairs, for that matter. If anything it began to fall out faster.  

So, she’d arranged to have her hairdresser shave it off. But even that wasn’t enough. There was stubble. Dark whiskers littered all over her scalp, like small exclamation points. It didn’t matter. She could cover it up with a jaunty cap.

But then she went to bed and found her head stuck to the pillow. The scalp stubble was like Velcro, holding her firmly prisoner against the white cotton. She had to yank her head away to change positions. No one at the cancer clinic had mentioned this indignity. But then that was nothing new.  

She should have gone back to her hairdresser and had it all removed but she just couldn’t face another trip. Besides this last step seemed too personal to share with a virtual stranger.

Her best friend had offered to help. She’d bring one of her husband’s Mach 3 Razors and they’d have a pruning party, she’d said, trying to be supportive.

But she had declined. The truth was that she was a little scared of using a razor. Another side effect of the chemo was a compromised immune system. If she cut her scalp she could end up with a nasty infection and she really didn’t want that. She especially didn’t want her friend to feel responsible if she did accidentally slice-and-dice her scalp.

So she was alone. Waxing her head and watching herself become more unrecognizable with every strip of cotton. It was awful, but there was also something very liberating about it too. She no longer looked like the typical girl next door anymore. She was changing. Evolving. Becoming someone else. Someone edgy and dangerous.

Or at least that’s what she told herself as she leaned down and really looked at herself in the mirror. The truth was that she still looked pretty harmless. She was an office clerk who smiled too much and laughed too loud. Attractive, but no great beauty. Her most notable physical trait had been a really remarkable rack. But now that was gone too. Just 18 inches of scar tissue remained to mark the spot where her double D’s had formerly lived since she was an awkward self-conscious teenager. Scars and the shiny white curve of her new chrome dome were what people would notice about her now.

It was so tempting to just sit down on the cold white tile and weep. Superficial or not she wanted to grieve for her hair. But she wouldn’t. It sucked to look like Kojak, but at least she would see it grow back someday. Her prognosis was good. She could even have reconstruction in a few months and get those perky B’s she’d always wanted. She was fortunate. She really was. But that didn’t stop her from hating this part. How people would look at her now that she was marked as a cancer victim. She’d have to get a wig. Hopefully something that didn’t look like she was smuggling a rodent on her head.

As she slides her hand over the smooth skin of her shockingly pale scalp she finally gives in and mourns the loss of her hair. Tears gather and fall slowly at first and then with real abandon. She’s been so strong until now but everyone has their limits and she’s just reached hers. This is about more than just hair. She looks at herself and cries because she has been in denial since the moment the doctor told her she had Breast Cancer. Really looking at herself in the mirror forces her to face the facts. She stares and realizes that she really can’t deny it any longer. The reality of her situation is staring back at her in the mirror. She has narrowly escaped a slow and painful death and she is terrified that all the treatments won’t be enough to save her. It’s not the very real possibility of death that makes her cry though.

She cries because she feels like she’s wasted her life and now it will never be the same again. She will never be the same again.