...Gone Tomorrow
Tue., October 26, 08:05 PM
What better title to a follow-up to Hair Today…? Maybe it’s a reminder to be thankful for what you’ve got. Vanity, which I call a survival trait, was about to get a real workout.
Almost the first thing they tell you, when you’re about to begin chemotherapy, is “you will lose your hair.” Sometime around the second treatment, my hair began to hurt. That is, as I told the nurse, it felt as if someone was pulling my hair. That’s the beginning.
Soon it began falling out in clumps, and I looked like Gollum out of “Lord of the Rings.” At that point I asked Son to bring his clippers and cut it off. [Son also shaved his own head, as did Son-in-Law — solidarity, they said.]
Well, at least I wouldn’t have to buy shampoo or conditioner for a while. I wouldn’t have to factor in hair-drying time when I planned a shower. I could take a nap without worrying that I’d crush my hairdo. Didn’t have to shave my legs either. And those bristles that appear on the chins of postmenopausal women were a thing of the past. It’s an ill wind, y’know, that blows no good at all.
But I am not designed to go hairless. These ears — my head reminded me of an ice bucket my mother once had. A side glimpse of myself in the mirror showed me something that looked like a baby condor. In my preoccupation with the jug-ears, I had forgotten the beak.
I was cold, too. You don’t realize how much heat you lose from your head. I was napping with a sheet wrapped around my head when U.D. came in to check on me. “Praise Allah,” I said. “Oh,” she replied, “I was going to call you Sister Mommy.” I needed a hat.
That’s easier said than done. I have a small round head. The cutest hats designed for cancer patients fell down over my eyes. Scarves slid down over my eyes too. I tried a baseball cap, which should have been fine, but after someone addressed me as “Sir,” I wore it only around the house. I did have some kids’ hats, including one very cute one from Baby Gap. (I told you, it’s a small head.) None of these, however was completely satisfying.
I consulted the boutique at the cancer center, where the woman showed me some soft cotton caps that wouldn’t slide around. I bought a blue-green one and a denim-colored one. M.D. gave me an assortment of brightly colored scarves to embellish them, so I could coordinate my colors and feel at least adequate.
I was sorry to lose my eyelashes, which had been one of my best features. However, since I am accustomed to using eyeliner, I still had part of the look I wanted. What I really missed, to my surprise, were eyebrows. I have no facial expression without them.
Further to my surprise, I couldn’t draw acceptable eyebrows. Using a stencil, I could make something resembling eyebrows, but something changes in your muscles when you concentrate… They didn’t match. I looked like Mr. Spock. And as much as I admire Leonard Nimoy, I think that look is better on him than on me.
I finally caved in and got a wig — not from the American Cancer Society, not from a local wigmaker, but from a catalog. This catalog offered lightweight synthetic wigs, very easy to care for. They offered guidelines for measuring and custom-blended colors.
I measured my head and ordered absolutely the smallest one they offered. (It’s a little big, but I can wear it.) I chose a combination of grey and dark brown, and it turned out somewhat greyer than I had expected. This was the closest I would ever come to blond. But a wig, even when people know it’s a wig, affects them differently than a hat that fairly screams “cancer patient.”
Toward the end of the summer, I had regained a sort of transparent fuzz. You couldn’t even see it unless it was backlighted, but it was obviously going to grow into grey hair. Now, I had heard other women report that their new hair was a different color or texture, even curly. I thought there was a chance I would have the light brown color I had as a child (nope!) and maybe the tendency to curl (not so far). Instead I had these very fine colorless hairs — not even the pretty white my mother had — with an awful lot of space in between them. Boy, I was glad I had a wig!
My eyebrows began to come back, at least enough that I could see where to use the pencil. A bit of eyelash was fringing my lids. So far, so good. And then I noticed that my skin was feeling a little coarse.
That was scary. It was on my face, my neck, my arms. I thought I had been taking care of my skin; was this an effect of radiation? Then I looked at my arms. The coarseness I felt was hair starting to grow. My “peach fuzz” was returning, and my skin was fine.
Some dark hair appeared between the grey strands. (The barber never believed me when I said the grey grew faster.) What I have now is a soft mat of fuzz, mostly dark. It has no body to it; it doesn’t even stand up like a crew cut. (Except for a few grey threads.) The weather is getting colder. I’d better take care of that wig.
