So the day appeared. The day I knew was coming. The day I'd lose my hair.
It was a Tuesday. Just a normal Tuesday. I ran my fingers through my hair and a wad of strands lay in my hand.
It was about durn time.
Seriously. From the moment I was unhooked from the chemo needle I've been waiting for this. I was beginning to think I was an anomaly, that maybe my hair would just stick there. Because, word, I have got some thick hair.
No really. I make hairdressers earn their money. Every single one of them tells me how thick my hair is.
However, thick hair does not mean good hair.
No, it doesn't.
So yesterday morning, whilst showering, I happened to look down at the floor of the tub and saw copious amounts of blackish strands circling the drain. That's when I knew. It was time. Time to shave it off.
I've had some time to think about it. I admit, I was pretty emotional sitting in the oncologist's office, discussing the effects of chemo and hair loss being the most prominent. I cried. I won't lie. It turns out I am very vain. And whilst I complain about my ever chronic bad hair days, I had hair. Hair is normal. Bad hair is normal.
But then, my Hubs reminded me that I get the very rare opportunity to see myself bald. I mean, who didn't wonder what they looked like sans hair when Sinead O'Connor came on the scene? So, in that regard, I'm pretty lucky. I also know what I look like sans nipples.
But that's another story.
So, here it is, Thursday night, and I'm perched on a chair in the middle of my bathroom, a towel draped around my shoulders to prevent hairs from attaching themselves to me. Yeah, that really didn't work, but whatever.
My Hubs is sniffling and holding his electric shaver. My oldest daughter, Emma, perched on the side of the tub to take pictures of me with her Daddy's iPrecious. (Really, I think she just was there to play on the iPhone, but whatever. She said supportive and nice things.) My youngest daughter, Addie, fled the room. I think watching me being scalped was upsetting to her. I can't say I blame her.
We got the before picture, good advice from others who went through this process. Lance discovered soon that my uber thick hair was a true match for his electric razor so he grabbed my good craft scissors and went to work. Snip snip snip. Many snips later, he went back to the razor. Buzz buzz buzz. Dang, I have a lot of hair, y'all.
Pretty soon, it was done. There's still stubble up there, in fact, there's quite a bit of it left. But if I run my hand along my scalp, little stubbles come away with it, so I'm pretty sure in a few weeks, I'll resemble a cue ball. I think that'll be way better than the rough side of Velcro feel I've got going on right now.
I didn't cry. I think it's because I did it on *my* terms. I didn't wait for chemo to snatch my hair out from under me.
This feels empowering. I can handle it.
And because I know that all of you will wonder what I look like, I'm going to be an awesome friend to you and share with you what I look like now.
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