I’ve shaved my head a few times—as a twenty-something, a thirty-something, and in several interesting configurations during the 2020 coronavirus lockdown, when bad hair ideas were executed on a near constant free-flowing experimental basis in our household.
But I’ve never lost an entire head of hair over the course of seven days.
I did lose quite a bit of hair following the birth of my son, as most childbearing folks do during that intense follow-up period when hormones attempt to return to some sensible balance. My hair thinned during that process, but evenly, and it did not fall out in patches.
My hair follicles didn’t prickle electrically with tiny dying gasps as their ability to generate new cells was stripped away, and my scalp wasn’t tender to the touch, like new skin over a recent wound.
I didn’t rub my head and come away with fingers and palms full of quarter inch hairs. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror and see sickness reflected back at me, as one might if one’s hair fell out in uneven patches following exposure to, say, deadly chemicals or excessive radiation.
I didn’t expect to feel this much emotion over losing something I’ve chosen to remove willingly—cavalierly—before. And you may say that it wasn’t my choice this time, but it was. I chose this treatment modality because it’s the best way to ensure that stray cancer cells have their DNA scrambled and forget how to reproduce, and so that they stay the hell out of my life for as long as possible. I knew that it would cause my hair to fall out, and I overlooked the fact that it might actually affect me.
It’s silly, perhaps, but the transitional time was the worst, and for me, it was because I couldn’t control how and when it would happen. My preference would’ve been all at once, like the gingko tree sheds its leaves on the same day in November. I would instantly doing my best Persis Khambatta/Illia/V’ger impression—oh, let me find something suitably space-age to slip into.
Instead, I looked sick. Patchy. “Ugly,” as the kid said in a moment of pure honesty for which I do not blame or resent him in the least. I praise him for his honesty and patiently explain that it’s not always best to use our outside-our-head voices, although it’s perfectly OK in this case and he’s done nothing wrong.
Today, the patchiness is gone and there are tiny fuzzy hairs still clinging to their temporary purchase on my bright dome. Today, I’m fine with it. Really. It was the process of losing it that landed its projectile deep in my heart, the un-evenness of it, the slowness. The obviousness of it.
But today, I embrace the end result, and will rock it for the next several months with zero worries.
I still aim for equanimity in all of this, but I’ve had to shift my metaphysical feet a few times this week to maintain this stance. Warrior poses, even—despite my earlier rejection of that metaphor. Trying to find and keep a stance where I acknowledge all of this as real, as temporary, as something that is being dealt with. And as something I refuse to focus on forever, even though I’m focusing an awful lot on it now.
This week, It’s not the cancer that I’m struggling with. Rather, it’s the cure—the visible consequence of my completely reasonable and logical choice to address this disease with the best scientific tools available with the goal of quite literally eradicating the absolute living shit out of it.
And, in case you were wondering or concerned—yes, it does in fact get chilly outside, and I do have a couple of lovely slouchy beanies in vibrant shades of grey and black to snuggle down over it.
Crabaghast! 