When it first came back, the top front was the last to appear. The little caps I had worn for nine months – red, lavender, blue, black - stayed on my head, keeping me warm, but more so hiding what to my mind was ugliness and the sign of my disease.
The pounds came back, too, slowly, just as the hair did.
When the caps came off, people complimented me on my appearance and asked if I would keep my hair short. Now, I have hated having short hair ever since high school when my unskilled or clueless hairdresser said, “You’ll never have long hair. It’s too wavy and unruly.” A tall girl, I felt my short wavy hair was not only unattractive, but also made me look pin-headed. And so, in college, despite the pronouncement, I grew my hair almost to my waist. Hippie hair was long hair, and I wanted it. The weight of it pulled out the frizz and the curl.
After that, when I got rid of the long hair, what I got was "big hair." It wasn’t until mid-life that I learned about a method for cutting curly hair that left me without a big, frizzy head, and with receiving frequent compliments for my luxurious, controlled waves.
After two sessions of chemo, I had to have my family snip off my locks. My daughter-in-law stepped in to help. After I got tired of seeing short hairs all over the place, I asked my son to shave my head. Bald. Months and months of baldness. Some women pull off bald heads with dignity and flair. I was not one of them, especially with my newly gaunt face and tired eyes.
Chemo can be soul-killing in addition to being cancer-killing.
But for now, at least, that time is over. My hair continues to grow, curlier than before, and wilder. I don’t know what will happen with it, just as I don’t know what else my poor beleaguered body will have to deal with. There’s not much I can do with crazy hair now, except appreciate having it and watching it grow.
The things we take for granted… It’s hair! On my head! And other places, too!
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