Hair today, gone tomorrow

 

Earlier this year, I attended the African American Film Festival at the campus where I teach. The Q&A following one film brought up the subject of hair in the African American culture. This sparked a lively discussion of the political messages conveyed by how an individual wears one’s hair as well as how a mother chooses to groom her child’s hair, whether it be braids, dreads, straightened or natural.

I think hair is less political for a Caucasian woman like myself, but it certainly is personal.

When I was a young woman, the owner of the TV station I worked at complimented me on my newly short haircut and told me he’d always noted that when a woman changed her hair, it signified a transformation in her life. The observation rang true. I was newly pregnant, but hadn’t announced the news to anyone

Now as I enter the part of my Hero’s Journey where my hair is falling out, it feels too personal to write about. This is the hardest part to share so far. This is because my hair is part of my armor, my ego, the identity I present to the world.

Losing my hair is yet another test, but the allies are there too.

Not long after my first chemo treatment, I realized I had a previously scheduled hair appointment. I kept it and had my hairdresser give me a Haley Barry cut so I wouldn’t be creeped out by masses of hair on my pillow.

Two weeks ago, the nurse navigator assigned to ‘my case’ sent me an envelope of resources for head coverings and wigs. Two days later, a thoughtful friend suggested we do lunch and visit a highly recommended shop downtown. “It might be a week before they can get you in for an appointment and then another week or two to get the order in so you might want to do this right away,” she said, gently. My heart raced. I told her about the packet of info from the hospital and how I wanted to check that out first.

The problem was I couldn’t bring myself to open the manila envelope. It took me a week to do so. When I finally mustered the courage to rip it open, I called the hand-circled resource on the list, which was the same shop my friend had recommended. I got in that day and within an hour, Brenda, the proprietor, suited me with a wig that she trimmed to match my Haley Barry cut. 

“Maybe my hair’s so thick, it won’t fall out,” I told her.

“It happens fourteen days after your first chemo.”

“That’s in two days.” 

“Most people notice clumping first. Then, when they take a shower and shampoo their hair, they find their hair comes off by the handfuls. It generally takes a few days before you lose it all.”

The next day, I tried the wig, wore the wig, fretted about how the wig looked. My family assured me it was fine. 

Then like clockwork, my hair started falling out on Day 14. No matter how prepared a person is, it’s still creepy. For two days, I tried not to comb my hair. Maybe I wanted to keep it longer or pretend it wasn’t happening. Then reality set it. Last night, I watched TV and discretely pulled out my hair in clumps, which I wadded into little hairballs. A friend suggested I do a buzz cut. I haven’t done that yet.

But I’ve adapted. 

In the morning, I put on my wig, take a deep breath and stand tall.