My hair. My heart constricts, my breath pauses, I feel ill thinking about getting my hair cut, never mind shaving it. I don’t know whether I break the back of this feeling by cutting it off first or if I just go straight to shaving it. I feel dreadful and broken. Worse than I actually felt about the cancer in my body. Worse than I felt in the build up to two operations. Worse than I felt about telling people.
And all the while, I know in my sane mind that this is ridiculous. It is hair. It doesn’t define me. It doesn’t make me who I am – my devastating wit (bahahaha!), my love for my family, my passions about so many things but mainly my wee cub, my quick fire tongue that leaves me in trouble a lot of the time and my love of the majority of swear words (minus the c one) to adequately describe a lot of situations!! I have also had very short hair before. Albeit I went through some dodgy phases but also theres a few decent pics that the man cub quite likes.
I’m not going to lie, since I broke the back of a good bubble at SWAT of all TV programmes, I have had a few tears behind the bathroom door. Nothing extreme, I seem to have quenched the desire to fully breakdown, but silent tears never the less. And it all seems utterly futile as it is a given, and inevitable. Which is usually when I move into acceptance mode as I like a plan. Its just I don’t like this plan very much at all.
Its Friday night, the night before the hairdressers and the neighbours come round for a ‘couple’ of drinks. When I say a couple, we ended up dancing round the living room at midnight and declaring that we’d shave our heads together. I mean, I wouldn’t put anyone else through it but the offer is beautiful. There was also a very funny conversation about contraception now I can’t take the pill – discussing the use of condoms with lesbians has to be a whole new scenario in my life that I laughed and laughed about!
Now its all well and good having a good Friday night. It is not so well and good waking up at 6am on the sofa, crick in neck, fully dressed, lights still on and an imminent hair appointment at 11am. Downed two pints of water and tried to get at least another hour before the cub arose. It was sorely needed!
Arriving at the hairdressers feeling more than a little tender, I swayed while the cub got her hair cut first. I’d declared to a couple of the girls that the restyle was a necessity for chemo rather than a choice so they were on it and amazing. And I did great at first. The back got absolutely chopped (but you can’t see that when you’re staring at your own face in the mirror!) And then my left side was chopped which is where reality started hitting hard. I mean, I only had barely shoulder length hair, but I still have a lot of it and as it was dropping down the gown I could see it, really see it. By the time my lovely Anna moved to my right side, silent tears were flowing and then I broke. Proper sobs. I mean the shame of sitting in a hairdressers where the majority of Saturday folk are getting Saturday night ready and theres me sobbing, while the cub is in the corner knocking out colouring of unicorns for anyone who would pay her attention.
I have never felt the need to bolt out of a chair so strongly in my life. But somehow, my arse stayed firmly put, knowing that if I bolted there was a good chance I couldn’t physically put my arse back in that chair – and that would have been an even worse haircut situation!! One of the girls sat with the cub making a unicorn cat drawing, Anna stood between the cub and myself, while the owner told me I looked amazing. And I pulled my big girl pants back on, took a deep breath and told Anna to get on with it. And she did an amazing job.
The resilience of the cub is amazing to me. She didn’t bat an eyelid when I was finished, told me my hair was very short, she liked it. And she still loved me. I mean, if I wasn’t already on the edge she was about to tip me over. But there was more to the day to be had – we nipped into the shop on the way home and as I walked in the first girl I clapped eyes on was wearing a head scarf. Whether through cancer or alopecia, I wasn’t to know. But I did think that the gods were testing me to my limits that day!!
I got home, cried some more. And hated my hair for all it was hairdresser done. I absolutely know that it never looks like that the next day and I will never again return to the look the hairdresser pulls off. And if I hate it now, and I am going to hate it full time when it is all in my control.
I’ve spent two days hibernating. I don’t want to be seen. I’m not ready to face the world. Bizarrely though I went out for Sunday lunch yesterday with my gorgeous family and we managed not to see anyone we knew, and it was all very normal and mundane. It’s strange as I don’t ‘feel’ different, but I ‘look’ different when I look in the mirror. And that’s how other people see me and judge me. And that’s not what I am looking forward too. Ugh.
I’m still being a strong bugger inside though. I’ve got this.