What Is Up With My Hair?

But let me back up a bit. My hair has been an issue throughout all of cancer treatment. As everyone knows, the hallmark of a cancer patient is a bald head. That’s pretty unmistakable. Being told you have cancer and waiting for test results is anxiety-provoking because — besides the obvious fact that you have freakin’ cancer — you don’t know the extent of your treatment. Being told you don’t need chemo is a huge plus. For me, this was because then I wouldn’t be a “full Monty” cancer patient, and my perception was that my condition would not be quite as serious as if I were going all in and having to undergo the full spate of treatments (surgery, chemo, radiation). The reality of this is debatable, of course, but for me, finding out that I needed chemo meant giving up hope of all normality. This wasn’t going to be like taking a prescribed medication. This was going to change me physically, and everyone would know.

I didn’t shy away from telling people of my diagnosis, particularly those who were going to see me on a frequent basis. I mean, who was I kidding?

I’d always had long-ish hair, but when it started coming out by the handful, the thought of leaving a hairy trail in my wake was unbearable. I entreated my husband to get the clippers and off everything went. My daughter was supposed to film the entire thing (I was bound and determined to record my experiences for posterity) but this whole episode was a little overwhelming and I started crying…and my sweet kid didn’t want to film a breakdown so she only took stills. I really wanted the video, but whatever. At least I had photos. My husband had fun leading me through an evolution of punk haircuts that allowed me to relive the 80s, but when it was all said and done, I felt better and promptly sent out the photos to close relatives. I got compliments on my headshape and was told that I had dainty elf-like ears. The world of cool Halloween costumes opened up for me.

And man, did I look weird.

So, for the next however-many months I was all about scarves and hats. I got used to always having something on my head because my dream of being the “cool bald chick” didn’t materialize. With my hair gone, I had a very good view of my scalp, and it looked terrible. I guess being a Northern European in a city on the same latitude as Morocco was not kind to my skin, and my scalp displayed the abuse it had suffered all those sunny, hatless days. I had some pretty incredible moles, and, look, I already had breast cancer – I didn’t want to have to deal with skin cancer too. My lid stayed capped.

Now, everything-hair was in a holding pattern until the end of my chemo. First of all, when you google “Taxotere” (one of my chemo drugs) and “hair”, the first entry that comes up is for a law firm that is planning a class action suit against the makers of Taxotere on behalf of all the women who suffered permanent alopecia after taking the drug. This is NOT what you want to see.

After all that, I was pretty impatient about hair regrowth. There is a small percentage of women who do not get their hair back, but it doesn’t matter how small that percentage is. When you’re holding your breath and waiting for your hair to return, you’re convinced that you’re part of it. To make matters worse, my hair had gone all white/gray so it was even harder to see. I gave in to the folly of reading about other women’s experiences with regrowth, and they all seemed to grow hair more quickly. Or not at all.

By this point, I looked like a cross between Yoda and Gollum, since a few crazy hairs had apparently not gotten the memo and decided to keep growing throughout my treatment. Not a lot, just enough to make my scalp look like it was undergoing an identity crisis. My eyelashes were still clinging for dear life, and I had high hopes of being able to emerge on the other side of this journey with some fringe around my eyes…but no. A few weeks after chemo ended, all but a couple of my lashes went the way of my eyebrows. Gone. Nothing quite like being hairless to make you look like an alien from a 70s sci-fi flick.

So I waited. I whined in my oncologist’s office, and cried in my counselor’s. I don’t have much faith when it comes to being patient and seeing how things turn out. My impatience was driven by fear. Every trip to the bathroom was another opportunity to stare in the mirror, trying to determine was that a shadow or a new hair? This was complicated by the fact that my previously excellent eyesight is changing and I’m not adjusting well to that. I forget to bring reading glasses and think that the world has just gone fuzzy, like that’s perfectly normal. To my glassless eyes, I still looked bald.

But at one point I was examining my forehead, where the hairs reeeeeally took their time coming in (what’s up with that???), and saw teeny translucent sprouts. Finally? Trip after trip to the bathroom mirror, squinting from every angle, the hairs were unmistakable. Yes, foreheads are great things, but I didn’t need so much of mine. And finally it was getting coverage.

Let’s fast-forward to now. I have hair. It’s white and I look like my kids’ grandma. But regardless, I have hair and that makes me so happy. Let me say it a few times: hair, hair, hair! And not only do I have hair, I have gravity-defying hair. It’s a few inches long and reaching for the stars. I use hair styling products with names like “taffy” and “putty” to keep it in place, but when I wake up in the morning I look like a Pomeranian. I didn’t even realize my hair could do that.

Note that I am not complaining. My eyelashes came back. My eyebrows didn’t, but that pulled me into the creative world of brow design. Once I got past the “my-brows-were-drawn-by-a-five-year-old” stage, I got into the look and expanded the rest of my make-up to balance my face out. In the end, I look more put together. At the same time, I don’t look like my old self. But perhaps that’s not so bad – I am not my old self inside, and that’s being reflected on the outside. Yes, sometimes I walk past a mirror and shock myself, but this journey has been transformative and I’m going to have to get used to that. As with everything, deep breaths.

Author: franticshanti

Why so serious?

One thought on “What Is Up With My Hair?”

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