A hair brain idea!

The hairdresser at the Cancer Centre said that my hair would begin to 'release' (fancy word for fall out in big, panicky chunks) around day 10-14 of my treatment. Those dates were engrained in my head. Day 10-14, Day 10-14, Day 10-14.

From day five onwards, after my chemotherapy,  I check the pillow in the mornings and run my hands through my hair to count the folically challenged strands.  Nothing to report.
Day six: nothing to report.
Day seven: nothing to report, and so on.

I begin to worry that maybe the chemo isn't working. I peer into the mirror in the mornings and look at my eyes brows. They are getting bigger, bushier, sprouting in all manner of directions - probably because I have given up on personal grooming. They are growing wild and free, in the knowledge that I've abandoned my tweezers and will not be on patrol any longer.

My mother and my aunt remind me that a friend of theirs went through chemotherapy and her hair only thinned a little, no great shedding episodes. Maybe it won't fall out, maybe I'll be lucky.

As the days go by and my head of hair is still in place, I think....maybe...just maybe. After a while, I give up and stop thinking about it.

Day 18, bleary eyed I yawn and roll out of bed, literally. My expander boob makes it hard for me to sit up in one easy motion, so in waking, I've mastered the art of rolling onto one side and pushing myself off into a crouching position, first thing in the AM. I look totally rediculous but am slowly learning not to care.

Today is my boyfriend's birthday and I have decided that I am going to take him for a birthday lunch. My nausea has receeded and I feel more confident in venturing to 'smelly' places, as long as the smells are clean, we should be ok. I decide on a healthy, country kitchen type, rustic restaurant, a place for ladies who lunch and business men, trying to impress potential clients. We will totally fit in with the locals!

I chose something nice to wear, with appropriate breast deflection. Nothing too tight, nothing too low, nothing which will accentuate the difference is sizes of my boobs and nothing that will make me uncomfortable. That is a surprisingly hard checklist for most women's wardrobes. I put on some make up and run my fingers through my short hair, fluffing it up, to give it an 'I've just rolled out of bed and have oh so sexy tosseled hair, because I'm super cool' kind of look. It fails miserably and looks like I've had a nest of crows roosting in my barnet! I ruffle it up some more and pull my fingers through it. A handful of hair comes undone. I can feel it peeling away from my skin, a very strange feeling. I look down at my hand, at the lump of hair tangled through my digits and I form a single syllable.

'O'.

I stare for a minute and don't really understand what's just happened and then I shake myself. What did I expect, I knew my hair was going to fall out. I chastise myself as my lower lip begins to tremble and my hands start to shake.

'Don't be rediculous'. I say, in my best stern parent voice.
'You knew your hair was going to fall out. This is not a big deal. It will grow back in a couple of months. You can't have actually though that you would get through this with a full head of hair.'
I move around the room quickly, depositing the handful of hair into the bin, gathering my bag, my keys, my boyfriend's present.
'It's not a big deal.' I keep telling myself. But it is. It's a massive deal. It's my hair, my annoying, misbehaving, never styles the way you want it to hair. My hair, on my head and it's all going to fall out. I shake my head again and set off. This is not going to ruin my day.

My boyfriend and I have a lovely meal, watching the ladies who lunch and the deal making and breaking business men, in expensive designer suits. We drink elderflower cordial and order our meal with a posh accent. The waitress eyes our jeans and designer less apparel. Clearly we are riff raff but we don't care. We even eat our meal with our elbows resting on the table and I lick my knife after the main course, to make sure I get all of the sauce.

I wonder if my hair has started 'releasing' all over my jumper and down my back on to the posh couch, in the posh restaurant. I put it out of my head and enjoy the rest of our lunch.

We then decide to go for a walk, down to the sea on a brisk cloudy day. I'm delighted to be energised enough to be able to go for a walk and I tell my boyfriend in the car as we drive to the sea that my hair has started falling out. I run my fingers through it and show him the handful of discarded locks. He uses a bad word. We are both very quiet.

'Well. At least we have another thing in common,' he says, 'We're both loosing our hair.' I smile out the window at the grey clouds.

When we get to the promenade, its brisk and cold and salty. The perfect Autumn weather for a walk by the sea. A heavy wind blows along and whips at my hair.
Oh no, the wind is going to blow all my hair off and I'll be patchy by the time our walk is over and I don't even have a scarf to cover my head! I panic, then give up. Feck it! Feck it all....I just want to go for a walk by the sea and not think about stupid cancer.

We survive the walk, my hair still in tact.

The next day, I've 'released' onto my pillow, strands and strands and strands of hair. How can there be so much after falling out and I still have so much left on my head? I don't want to touch it, brush it or wash it. It's like looking after a fragile, unstable animal. I don't want to aggrivate it, I don't want to touch it, or hassle it, in case it all just falls off, in a hissy fit.

I plan to go to the hairdressers after the weekend and ask her to shave it. I'm resolute and feel really determined about it.  My boyfriend says 'Don't shave it, don't. It might just thin.' The only thing that is thin is believeing that that will actually happen.

The day is lovely and I put this whole business with my hair out of my mind. I go to the shop and then come back and sit at the front door in the sunshine, drinking some peppermint tea and reading the news paper. Absently, I run my fingers through my hair, forgetting that its mutinous. A handful of it comes undone. I shake it free and the wind catches it up, carrying it away on the light breeze. I do that a few more times until I'm convinced that I must have pulled out most of it. In a voyeuristic way, I can't help myself, like picking at a scab, I pull handful after handful of hair away and I fell disembodied from the whole experience.

The next day I hoover the house. There is hair everywhere. It's in the bathroom, on the floor in my room, on my pillow, on my clothes.
Right! That's it.
I ring my boyfriend.
'I need you to come over and bring your shaver.'
'No way. I'm not doing that. Wait and see what happens.'
I purse my lips and mentally count to ten. It's my bloody hair and I will do what I want with it. I'm the one who has to watch it fall out, day after day, hour after hour, forming a hairy coat over everthing, except my head, which is where I want the hair to be in the first place!
Calmly I speak. 'Either you bring over your shaver and help me do this or I'll do it on my own and make a total arse out of the job.'
He knows that tone. He has heard it before.
'Ok. I'll be over in a minute.'

I look in the mirror and am angry at Hair (as if it was a separate person, a life of its own). Angry at Hair for deserting me. Angry at Hair for being such a woss that it let chemo kick its arse, angry at Hair for getting every where, sticking to everything, causing a mess, reminding me every time I look somewhere and see a strand of Hair, on the counter top, in the sink, on my shoe, mutinous Hair, abandoning me! Well, I'll show Hair who's the boss.

My boyfriend arrives and we go upstairs and I kneel, contrite in front of him, my head over a basin to catch all the discarded strands.
'Should we say something?' he asks, 'like a prayer of something.'
I can't see him as my head is bent at the neck, waiting for the killer blow (shave) but I know he is mocking and I blindly reach out a hand and punch him half heartedly.
I smile and grit my teeth.
'Let's get this over with.'
The sound of the shaver starting up makes my heart skip a beat and suddenly I see whisps of hair, then bunches of dark glossy locks, then suddenly clumps of the stuff driffting past me, away from me, into a basin.

It's so final, so sad.
I say goodbye and  kneel back on my haunch after the shaver falls silent. I run my hands through, well, through nothing, there is nothing there, just ruffles of stubble. I stand up and peak into the mirror.
Oh my god...Im bald!
Doh...of course Im bald. What did I expect, I've just shaven off my hair. I shake my head at my own sentimentality and reach for my wig.
It's a really nice one, sharp cut, a shoulder bob with sweeping fringe. It's really nice. I put it on and look good, if only my real hair was such good quality and always perfectly behaved. I like it.
But it's not mine. I take it off and fling it on the bed.

My boyfriend has to go, so I thank him for his help and say I'll see him later.

I go upstairs and choose something nice to wear. I'm very particular about what to wear this day. I check in the mirror and get a shock, oh my god, I'm bald...doh, obviously I don't have a very long term memory.

There's nobody home, so no one to see me stall at the front door, keys in hand, a little shakey. I take a breath and open the front door, stepping out. It's sunny and warm and I can feel the sunshine on my head, the prickly bits of stubble stand to attention. I lock the door and turn onto the street. Our neighbour from two doors up is out with her kids, she looks up and smiles and then freezes. 'Hi'.

I keep going, my heart thumping a little. At the end of the street I turn and head to the shops. I think I must be a masacist. Every time I walk past a dark shop window and glance in it I get a shock, oh my god, I'm bald!

I phone my boyfriend.
'Hello', he says.
'Hi. Just ringing to say I'm walking to the shop.' Feeling stupid now but had to ring someone to tell them what I'm doing, as if I need a little bit of moral support.
'What are you wearing on your head?' he asks, cautiously.
'Nothing!' I feel like giggling, as if I'm doing something naughty.
He pauses on the other end of the phone. 'Ok. Call me after and tell me how you get on.' I nod and hang up the phone, reassured that I'm completly off my trolley. Why could I not just put the wig on and be done with it. Because it's a lie, I feel like it's me hiding and I want to be free of this thing, not hiding from it all the time.

Some people stare. Some people don't. I keep my head up and walk calmly down the street. All the children stare, one little boy peeps around his mothers legs and tilts his head, looking at me quizzically, wondering about me. I wonder about me too sometimes.

I go all the way, to the furthest shop, to buy a lottery ticket (I'm feeling lucky!) and a newspaper and then I walk slowly and calmly home, enjoying the sunshine.

I get in the door of my house and close it gently behind me.

Phew.  My hands are a bit shakey and I need a minute to calm down. That's done.

I survived. I pass the mirror in the hall and glance at it. OH MY GOD...Im bald! Doh!
It's going to take me a while to get used to my new look.