Hair Pt. II: Megamind

Running a hand through my hair is a nervous tic that is surprisingly hard to break for someone who’s bald.

There’s almost no hair for my fingers to even run through anymore — why can’t I stop touching it? All day long I compulsively run my palm across my head, push against the natural flow of my cowlick to feel the soft spikes that are all that’s left of my curls. Oh, I have a mole there? An interesting thing I wish I didn’t know.

Other interesting things I know now:

• A warm breeze feels really good on a bald head. So does letting water run over it in the shower.

• It’s safe to use tanning lotion on your scalp, and the odds of looking like Ross Geller in that one Friends episode is relatively low (but never zero.)

• Air conditioning is a whole new level of brain freeze.

• Letting your friends touch it gives a quick glimpse into what it must feel like to be a dog (in a good way.)

• Purple wigs are the best wigs.
  

I really want to be one of those girls that shaves their head and absolutely rocks it. I have at least three friends who did it and looked so hot and badass it was weird to think of them ever having hair to begin with.

Personally, I feel like I look like that one-eyed baby doll with metal spider legs in Toy Story.

After spending 20 years hating my hair, it feels like a weird Monkey’s Paw type curse to have it all taken away. Be careful what you wish for! Just like I apparently shouldn’t have wished for “something interesting” to happen after spending the first half of my twenties in COVID lockdown.

Oh, you want life experiences? You want main character energy? How about we throw you into your own personal John Green novel and make you fight for your life!

I knew the hair thing was going to hurt. A lot.

I had been mentally preparing myself for the shaving for weeks. Or trying to, at least. Every time we came close to doing it someone would ask me, "Are you ready?" And even sitting in the chair, my dad behind me with the trimmer buzzing, waiting for me to respond, I had to say, "Nope. But we're gonna do it anyway."

Most of my "cancer journey" (gross) so far is trying to find any bit of control in an uncontrollable situation. A lot of it is delusional, but I don't care. I’m an English major — I thrive on delusion.

Of course I knew that I would lose my hair whether I cut it or not. It's not a choice I would have made if I didn't have cancer, so it's not truly a freely made choice. But the act of cutting it myself — even before I was "ready" to — made me at least feel like I was the one with the power, not cancer. My hair is gone now because I cut it, not because it fell out.

Like I said, mostly delusion.

As expected if you know me, the shaving was a family event. Five pairs of eyes staring at me in a line like I was at a press conference, one pair behind me laser-focused on shaving my hair as gently and evenly as possible. And mine closed, trying to not listen to the buzzing sound and instead focus on how surprisingly pleasant the clippers felt on my scalp. It had been so tender for the week my hair was falling out. Sitting outside with a warm breeze blowing across it and feeling all the itchy hair fall off felt like a luxurious massage.

Even though I knew what that sensation meant.

I kept my eyes closed and refused to look at progress pictures because I knew it would be a shock. “It’s like snow,” I heard my youngest sister whisper when she saw how white my scalp was (Creep.)

I didn't look at all until I was safely locked in the bathroom. I kept the lights off at first, trying to savor the last few moments before I had to see myself actually look like a cancer patient for the first time.

Immediate tears. Obviously.

In truth it wasn't as horrible as I was expecting it to be. I didn’t have a monstrously deformed alien head like I feared. I knew there'd be ways to make it better, that it would look different once my scalp was tan, and once the short hairs that were there fell out completely, and once I order that vintage turban I've been looking at, and once I embroider some head wraps and baseball caps and get a purple wig to have some fun with it.

But none of that brings my curls back.

The good news is now I HAVE to live because I refuse to die without my hair (another delusion, but also the truth.) I hope to eventually get to that headspace during chemo where I feel confident being bald. I want to be able to turn my camera on for work calls and walk out of my house without a beanie or a second thought.

We’re not quite there yet.

But in the meantime my best friends are there hyping me up on the days I feel good about it, and making me laugh, bringing me ice cream and books, watching crappy tv with me, and not commenting on it at all on the days that I feel like the Toy Story baby head.

Have I mentioned lately that I love my friends??