"Oh Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." - Amy March (ugh)
I’ve never really considered myself to be a vain person. Sure, I care that I don’t look like I just crawled out of a sewer (though those standards have dropped significantly over the course of the past year, something I realized the other day as I was walking the foster dog in pajama pants tucked into my socks (so they wouldn’t get wet on the rain-soaked pavement), a coat that no longer fits, no bra, and unwashed and unbrushed hair twisted into the laziest bun ever) but I’ve never been a natural at make up or putting together outfits or styling my hair. It’s never really bothered me, it’s just not a thing I’m good at.
When my oncologist, Dr. R, went over my new treatment plan with us back in October, she went deep into the side effects. I mostly just sat and listened, nodding along, as nothing she was saying was all that surprising. Fatigue. Nausea. Neuropathy. Potential barf-city.
What did surprise me was when she got to the bit about hair loss. Up until that point, I’d been able to keep my emotions in check (for once). But as soon as she said, “This will likely cause total hair loss,” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tears started coming. Even at the time, I laughed and rolled my eyes at myself, as Dr. R explained that they’d work with my insurance to get a wig covered.
I shook my head. I wasn’t upset about the not having hair, not really. I’ve never been that attached to my hair (other than literally BADUMBUM). In fact, one of my favorite pastimes is seeing how long I can let my hair get before chopping it all off. My pandemic hair was about as long as it’s been since high school, as I only had one real haircut during the pandemic (not counting the haircut I gave myself). I’d been considering a big change but hadn’t decided on whether I should dye my hair purple or cut it all off or both. I guess now I’m glad I waited. That would have been a waste of time and money and while I’m mostly OK wasting time, I do NOT like wasting money.
No, I think what really bothered me was the realization that I wouldn’t be able to hide my cancer anymore. Now, as long as I don’t speak, most people don’t know there’s anything wrong with me, unless they’re like that one guy from that episode of The X-Files who can sense people have cancer because he has to eat it to survive (and I thought I had problems). I have scars, sure, but I don’t think they’re that obvious. My trach scar is probably the most visible but, unless someone looks really closely, it’s not that prominent.
But without hair (especially if the eyebrows and the eyelashes eventually go, too), it’s going to be really obvious that I’m sick. It’s the sign of cancer that’s going to be hardest to hide, even with a wig or a hat or a scarf (if I even bother hiding it, I’m very lazy, you know).
During the first few weeks of chemo, my hair didn’t change at all. I thought maybe I’d be part of the very small percentage of people who are lucky and don’t lose their hair. Around the fourth week, though, I started noticing more hair on the bathroom counter. Then strands and strands started coming out, rather suddenly. It wasn’t coming out in giant chunks or anything, but I could see and feel a noticeable difference. The amount of hair in the shower drain after each shower was ALARMING. Since I didn’t want to wait for every single strand to fall out (I had a lot of hair), I asked my friend Lauren to come over and help me.
The day of The Head Shavening, I didn’t really feel anything. Sometimes I’d glance at myself in the mirror as I walked by and think, “My hair will be gone soon.” I’d take my hands and try to cover as much of my hair as possible to see what I might look like once it was gone, but I really couldn’t picture it. I’ve had short hair in the past, but this time, my hair was just going to be gone. No more.
Before Lauren arrived, I showered, and then dried my hair for the first time in…months probably, and the last time for who knows how long. I lost a significant amount of hair in that process, but I really wanted to get before and after photos. I took some selfies and then, when it was time, Lauren got her supplies in order and I invited my virtual cheering squad to watch from afar (thanks, technology!), something that had just occurred to me would be a possibility the night before.
I was so glad that I had some people with me in person and virtually for this process – it made it more of an event and less of a thing to be sad about. Lauren, wonderful person that she is, took charge once it was time, and gave me both a mullet and a mohawk before it was time to shave it all off. As she started the actual head shaving, my laughter faded away and I could feel the emotions starting to break through - tears slipping down my cheeks along with tiny bits of my hair. I wasn’t upset about how I looked (it ended up looking less Uncle Fester-y than I had anticipated), but because of the significance of the act. This was happening because I’m sick, because things aren’t what one would call “ideal” in my life right now, and it’s just one more thing I didn’t ask for that’s happening anyway. But this time I was able to wrench some control away. I didn’t wait around for all my hair to fall out of my head - I said fuck it, let’s get rid of it now.
And it’s not all bad, really. I’ll save money on shampoo and conditioner. No more cleaning gobs of hair out of the shower drain. I won’t have to worry about doing anything with my hair (...not that I’d been putting a lot of effort into that lately). Sure, I won’t be able to twirl it anymore when I’m stressed/anxious/worried (WHEN DOES THAT HAPPEN HA HA HA) but I could always...save a strand? Carry it around with me? That’s not weird, right?
I prepped before the hair went away, too. I have a plethora of hats to keep my head covered (which is good because I didn’t realize how cold my head would be without hair). I plan on using scarves if I ever remember to buy them or learn how to tie them so they don’t fall off. And I now have a purple wig (honestly, I can’t believe I didn’t have one already) to wear just for funsies.
It’s been a couple of days now and, other than my head being cold, there hasn’t been anything negative about not having hair. I do still catch myself going to twirl my ghost hair, or wring it out after showering. Sometimes I forget and it just feels like my hair is in a ponytail and I don’t remember it’s gone until I reach back to adjust it and find only air. Still. It’s been OK.
Joe actually offered to shave his head in solidarity (because of course he did) but I asked him not to. I know it’s a pretty accepted form of support for people in a cancer patient’s life to shave their heads when the patient loses their hair to chemo, but I’m not really into it. Selfishly, shaving your head doesn’t really benefit me in any way, unless you look especially hilarious bald. And shaving your head doesn’t really help any cancer patients, unless your hair is long enough to donate to Locks of Love or something - in which case, go for it!
But here was the real reason: when I thought about Joe shaving his head, I realized that I’d have to watch his hair grow back while I stayed bald. My understanding is that my hair won’t grow back unless I stop this chemo treatment, and the only reason I’d stop this treatment is because it’s no longer working or because the side effects get too bad, neither of which bode well prognosis-wise. And what a bummer to have to sit and watch someone’s hair grow back while my head remains shiny and Conehead-y. No wig, purple or otherwise, would be fun enough to make me feel better after that.
I really don’t know if my hair will ever grow back. I could very well be on chemo for the rest of my life. If it does grow back, it might look completely different than it used to. But until then, I’m going to head into each day lowkey cosplaying as Ripley. Honestly, I can’t think of a better cancer patronus than her.
