Really Bad Hair Day

Being a woman comes historically and even now, with a whole lot of baggage.

I don’t mean that, because Southwest offers two free bags per person, I bring two regardless of where I’m going or for how many days. We women just got a lot going on. 

At some point we decided to sum up our trials, tribulations and grievances in a ponytail – messy, greasy and baseball hat covered – in order to disguise our momentary loss of the plot. Whining isn’t sexy and so, having lost the verve to leave our homes in a perky coif, we’ve been encapsulating the havoc of teething children, job loss, weight gain, aging parents, moving, cheating husbands, or all of the above as a “bad hair day.” It gives us permission to go into the world without a shower, a blowout, and probably deodorant and a bra. 

I am now exploring the concept of a different kind of “bad hair day,” and ironically it will deal mostly with the next six months or so of not having any.   

On the one hand it feels cliche to document my “journey” as I embark on what comes next after my recent breast cancer diagnosis. On the other, I know I’m gonna want to share what I’m going through from a perspective of honesty, humility and humor. To add another H, what I’m grappling with right now is Hair and the loss of it. 

“It’ll grow back,” you’ve told yourself after being butchered by a stylist who didn’t quite understand “ONE inch” in the way you did. That’s what you’ve told yourself when you still had something to work with. Very few of us have had to reckon with leaving a salon with no hair on our heads. I’m about to go bald and not at the hands of a misguided stylist.

Women more than men define themselves by their hair. We have so many options! Colors, cuts, perms, straighteners, curling irons, rollers. We can use it to detract from weight, acne, a big nose, a small chin. It’s important, at least in my culture. We braid, grow, shave, color and curl in order to define who we are. To tell people “I’m retro, I’m modern, I’m defiant, I’m professional, I’m sporty, I’m still a cheerleader, I’d be a pole dancer if I didn’t have a husband and kids,” and so on. 

Certain cuts are “sexy” – on certain people. I for one could never pull off short hair. Needed the security of something falling over my shoulders, blowing in the wind of an open car window. Lately, bangs that cover disappearing eyebrows.  

Kids today are coloring and braiding and shaving as if it will just grow back. And it will. So what am I even worried about and shouldn’t I be more concerned about what got me here? Yes and no.

At this point, I am game to have the boobs lopped right off. Maybe I’d rebuild, using available “cells” from the buttock area. Alas, according to surgeons and oncologists, that is not a “survival” option. Chemo is.

There are alternatives to hair loss, such as the “cold cap,” and also making a wig of my own hair. Why does that sound gross? Wig means I’d still lose and have to grow back hair. Again, with the hair. Well, it’s taken me years and thousands of dollars to grow out, cut it and color it, so, ya, I’m losing an investment.

Men are not only more comfortable without it (and lose it more consistently as a matter of genetics than women), but they look very good bald. We are accustomed to seeing men without hair. My husband started shaving his off 25 years ago and has never looked back. I’ve often envied his “get ready” agenda, being that it is about 40 minutes less than mine. He doesn’t highlight, trim or own 18 gadgets whose purpose is to make what you got look like what you wish you had. (He’s clearly more of a grown-up than I.)

Am I honestly this vain that in the face of an often life-threatening disease, that I can only think about how to cover my bald-ass head?

Actually, it’s about taking control. I need to be in charge of some aspect of what has been thrust on me, and there’s very little I can do. So I’m anticipating the reality and looking at options.

I’ve talked to people who went the self-hair wig route. An acquaintance hennaed her scalp with her daughter as she also heannaed her pregnant belly. Initially she’d done a “Say a Prayer, Cut My Hair” party. She used her head in a Halloween costume. I’m not sure how happy-go-lucky I’ll get in this process. But I do plan to have some fun with it where I can. Eyebrows. Are they going too? With eye lashes? In any case, I’ll do caps, bandanas, scarves, and probably go all shiny and reflective at some point. 

Which means people will know my biz. I will get to know myself. Hopefully Chris Rock will be around to call me out – cuz, damn, bald does look good on some! 

Am I so shallow that my hair is all I can think about? Oh my no. I’m thinking about 1,000 other things, but at the moment, this is maybe the only one I can “wrap my head around.” The only thing in my control, and my only foreseeable future. Still got both boobs, still got my sanity, a bunch of “lids” on the way, specialists, CAT scans, MRIs, my relative health and loads of people who love me. For now, I have the luxury of focusing on being bald for awhile, as the rest of me is brought to rights. It seems at the moment, like a good thing to hold onto. 

Meanwhile, I’ve just received my first chemo headgear from Amazon. It’s super cute and I’m sobbing. It’s real. Also real is today. Sunday. Laundry. I wish I could talk to my mom right now – she passed in 2015. I would just like to know how much clothing I wore as a teenager, because I’m sure it wasn’t as many tons as I am facing today. Never mind. Lucky me.