Pre-emptive Strike

I vividly remember a few key events from my first go-'round with cancer. One of them stands out above all others. It was the summer of 1984. I was taking a summer school class at the local community college to make up for the class I missed when I was diagnosed with my relapse earlier that year. I had started chemotherapy a few weeks earlier, and was sitting in class taking my final exam. As I sat at the black lab desk, studying the exam, it started.

First it was just a couple of hairs ... sun-bleached blonde against the shiny black of the desk. It took a few moments for me to register what was happening. I had hoped this wouldn't happen. I had been using the "cool cap" they suggested to freeze my hair follicles during chemotherapy so my hair wouldn't fall out. Yet there was the evidence, in black and blonde, right before my eyes. I ran my fingers through my hair and a handful of hair came out.

I finished my exam but didn't do very well. My hair continued to fall out for several days. The cool cap had done a half-baked job, as I never lost all of my hair but it thinned tremendously. I had enough wisps to fake it, with the help of a scarf or hat, at least in my own mind. After that experience I didn't cut my hair for years and years. It was down to my tailbone at one point and I got lots of compliments on it. I've had girlfriends tell me they think my hair's my best feature. I've had boyfriends tell me never to cut it. I guess, sadly, it became a part of how I identified myself.

It is that memory that is at the root of my anxiety over losing my hair. Anxiety that I'll be somewhere undesirable and public when it starts to go. The anxiety that people will stare if I wear a scarf, and know if I'm wearing a wig. The anxiety that my children will be afraid of me because I look so different.

And so, this superficial thing that shouldn't matter has been the subject of much introspection. I knew from the beginning that if I ever had chemotherapy again I would just accept the hair loss and ultimately shave my head. But something about going from very long hair to no hair at all felt traumatic. So, I decided I needed a plan (not a big surprise to those of you who know me well!).

My friend Jen and I have been seeing the same hairdresser for something like 15 years. A year ago she "retired" to be home with her kids, and we've been in mourning ever since (hear that, Pat???). Given the emotion surrounding my current situation I really wanted to get help from someone who knew me well. So Jen tracked down Pat and today I visited her in her home. She was my strike team in giving me a transitional haircut that would ease me into the notion of less hair without abruptly throwing me into no hair. I'm now short and sassy, at least for another week, so when it does fall out there will be less of it to fall.

I must say I was surprised at how good it felt. "I'm still me, it's OK" I thought when I looked in the mirror. "It's actually really cute."

Then Pat, ever the psychotherapist cum hairdresser, said "I don't like the reason that we did this but I gotta tell ya, I've been wanting to see you in short hair for years!" And so I enter a new chapter and may never go back ... we'll see.

I arrived home before Bill and the girls. They knew I was getting my hair cut and Rosie in particular was quite concerned about it. When they knocked on the door, I cracked it open and peered out. Rosie had a very worried look on her face. I then opened the door and her eyes brightened with a huge smile and visible relief. Tess was smiling too. "Mommy, you look beautiful!" Bill said I looked "sophisticated."

Tonight when Sofie called from the east coast I said "Guess who got her hair cut really short?"

"Rosie?" she said.

"Nope."

"Tess?"

"Nope."

"Mom. What did you do!" She was afraid I had gone straight to bald and was a bit panicked at the prospect. When I explained it was a transition she felt better. It will be fun to see the surprise on her face when I pick her up at the airport on Saturday.

And so, I too can join the sisterhood that chants "I am not my hair." I am much more than that. I am a mother. A wife. A daughter. A sister. A friend. A survivor. Who needs hair to do any of those things?