Bad Hair Day

I woke up to find my pillow covered with hair. Not cat or dog hair. My hair. I tentatively tugged at a few strands on my head and out they came with no resistance whatsoever. The doctors told me I would lose my hair, and I know several other women who have had the same chemo drugs as I am on who lost their hair. Still, it's a shock when it actually happens. It's like a  dream I had once where my teeth were all loose and falling out and all the next day I kept running my tongue around my mouth to make sure that my teeth were secure. Only this time I wasn't dreaming.

I had a wig ready, purchased at the salon at St. Joseph hospital in Ann Arbor. Very cute and sassy, my husband says. I also have amassed a small collection of hats, waiting for the day when I finally needed them. I stood in the bathroom for a long time pulling strand after strand of hair out and dropping it into the waste basket. I cried quite a bit. One more thing to grieve in this damned process.

So I took the hair clippers downstairs and told my husband he needed to shave my head. I did not want to go through days of watching it fall out in my dinner plate or washing down the drain while showering. My daughter, with her own bald head, took pictures while my husband buzzed me with the clippers. He was a bit nervous about it. I have cut his hair for years. He said he never thought I would let him cut mine. At one point I took the clippers from him and did a few swipes over my skull. My husband asked what I was doing. My daughter said I was taking control.

When the job was done I reluctantly ran my hand over my head. I did not like the feeling, like my husbands face when he hasn't shaved for a couple of days.  My husband looked into my eyes for a long moment and said "You are so beautiful." I cried some more.