Chia Pet

I am sitting at the kitchen table at my parents’ house. I have been dreading this moment for eight weeks. It is “SHD”—shave head day. My hair is about to fall out. For the past three days, tiny strands multiply in my hair brush. I wash my hair and small clumps stick between my fingers. A brave friend went camping the weekend her hair was to fall out and let nature scatter it to the wind. I am not that strong. Losing my hair makes the fact that I have the “C” so tangible. My secret made so public. PJ has a pair of scissors and an electric razor. My hair is long. And blonde. I think it is my defining characteristic. It is what makes me feel like a girl. I want to donate it to Locks of Love. Carrot bunches it into a dozen pony tails pulled tight at the top. Someone cuts them off at the roots. One by one. We wrap them in paper towels and put them in a Ziploc bag. PJ is running the razor over my head. Clumps of my remaining hair fall to the floor. Incredible sadness. I cannot stop crying. Irreversible, unavoidable step. PJ is being so gentle. I know it is hurting him to hurt me. I regret not thinking to schedule an appointment with a hairdresser to spare him that. I walk to the bathroom and look in the mirror at the new me. I do not look like me to me. I like my eyes.

I have spent approximately 270 days of my adult life bald. This doesn’t include the other 510 days (and counting) that I have walked around looking like a Chia Pet. I have lost my hair twice. The first time was the hardest. Dr. Cold to me: “You have Cancer. We do not know if we can cure it.” Me to Dr. Cold: “Yes, but will the treatment make me lose my hair?” Crazy vanity. Emotion wasted on something so trivial. Tears over nothing … that felt like such a HUGE something. Learning to accept my shiny noggin is another “fun” thing I wish I didn’t know about Cancer.