A Life in Tresses (Part II)

Personal Memoir

One of the hats I knit for myself to wear, once I lost my hair (2019)

Part I is posted here.

I started my first rounds of radiation and chemotherapy treatments in late March 2019. The doctors gave me about a month to recover from my surgeries, to let the incisions heal, before accosting my body with a full battery of artillery fire. The radiation beam burned away a patch of hair behind my left ear as a result of this barrage. The area of fried hair follicles has never regrown. Other sizeable portions fell out due to the chemo, but over time, the hair returned like a phoenix from the ashes. Nowadays, longer strands cover the burn patch, making it unnoticeable to the casual observer.

I keep my hair long as it’s easier to manage and maintain. My bathroom counter remains un-cluttered, eschewing bottles of hair care products and makeup. I use a shampoo bar instead of bottled—a change I implemented pre-pandemic to cut down on plastic waste. My late 1980s model Vidal Sasson travel hairdryer has been relegated to drying paint on art projects. I alternate between wrapping my hair back into a bun or braiding it down my back to control it as I hate getting hair in my eyes or face.

Many people warned me that I should cut my hair before the treatments started. “It’s very unsettling to have large chunks of hair fall out,” they said. I believed them. Plus after having kids, I understood limited hair loss. Those hormonal changes post-delivery made me shed hair for months. Was I prepared for what was to come? Not in the least. As much as I thought I was ready, when my hair hit the big red eject button, it was disconcerting.

My husband keeps his hair short. He owns a battalion of Wahl clippers and trims his own hair. From time to time, he enlists my aid to straighten up the back areas where it is difficult for him to get a decent view in the mirror. At the beginning of my treatments, I decided to bite the bullet and cut my hair.

“Are you sure you want me to cut it that short?” Dennis said. He stood behind me while I perched on a barstool. We both faced the mirror.

“Yes,” I said, looking him in the eyes.

I tied my hair back into a ponytail while Dennis grabbed the scissors. It took him a few minutes to sever the thick bundle from my head. He held the long wad of hair in his hands for a moment before placing the tail on the counter. The few remaining strands brushed the top of my shoulders in a ragged line. We laughed at how crazy the bottom edge looked.

“You should have cut the hair above the ponytail elastic to keep it together,” I said.

“Yeah, that would have made more sense.”

He reached for the clippers and snapped the one inch guard over the blades. They buzzed to life when he clicked them on.

A few weeks later, I sat at the dining table, attempting to eat something for breakfast. My hand brushed the back of my neck and a clump of hair came loose. A huge, fricking clump! Strands of hair clung to my fingers and fell into my food. I am not sure what made me more nauseous—the food on my plate or the pieces of hair sprinkled on top. I made my way upstairs to the bathroom and rummaged in the drawer for my hand mirror. In front of the wall-mounted mirror, I twisted back and forth, trying to determine the damage from this newest casualty of war. That morning we used the shortest guard on the Wahl to shave the rest of my head.

To be continued…