daddy warbucks

     When one of my sisters was born, she had very little hair.  As time went on we endearingly called her "Daddy Warbucks."  Thank God she's not returning the favor now that I'm 31 and bald.

     I was a compulsive hair-brusher, you guys!  I carry carried a brush in my purse at all times.  At school, if my office was on the way, I would sometimes pop in during a transition to another classroom for the sole purpose of brushing my long, straight hair into place for five seconds like I had serious problem.  Now that you know I'm a freak, you can imagine what it might have been like to consider losing hair during chemo.

     The day of my diagnosis I asked my oncologist if I would lose my hair.  He responded matter-of-factly, "Three weeks."  Clearly, this was common and I needed to accept it.  You can't prepare for a lot of things when you have cancer, but with this I had a little bit of time.  Some survivors told me they took charge and shaved their head right away.  I kind of wanted to hold on to whatever I could until it got patchy.

     So, I did things gradually.  Two friends came with me to get like 80% of my hair cut off the first time and made jokes to ease my anxiety.  I looked like a completely different me in the mirror.  Actually, I started thinking that with the new hairstyle I looked more like an image I had in my head of gold medalist Kerri Strug from that clutch 1996 vault that earned her a gold medal.  A little too swoopy for my taste… but, like, go USA & stuff.

     Then I got a faux hawk.  The edge made me feel a little more modern.  Still, the reflection in the mirror looked foreign.  Even with all the positive comments from friends, I felt like my femininity had been compromised.  So, when chunks of hair started falling out in my hands, I knew I was in for it soon.

     One morning I text Christy, my housemate, "Today's the day."  She said she'd make a head-shaving playlist.  I didn't know if I'd want to laugh about it or cry about it that night, but I would gladly accept two glasses of wine either way.

     Four friends-turned-barbers took turns shaving my head.  When I saw myself for the first time- in a cell phone photo because I couldn't wait- I took a deep breath and told myself to accept it.  The next morning I took a razor to my head and cleaned it up.  (My friends were mediocre barbers, but I still love them.)  I accepted myself a little more.  In addition, I told myself I should be thankful I had chemo in the winter so I could wear hats.

     I've mostly come to terms with being bald at this point.  I'm not pumped about it, but it's become normal.  I don't get wide eyes when I look into the mirror anymore.  I do kinda cringe when I think about the hairstyles I might have to have as it grows back in, but people told me that it might come back curly or a different color after chemo.  That might be kinda cool.  The funniest part of this whole experience came about a week or so after shaving my head- when I asked my mom to touch up the part behind my ears…

     "Did you ever think you'd be helping me shave my head?"
     "No.  Not unless you became a Neo-Nazi."
     "What?!  You'd help me if I became a skinhead?  I'm putting that in my blog."
     (That's unconditional love, folks.)