Three months have passed since I finished my breast cancer treatment. Yesterday I had my hair done for the first time in almost a year. I have looked forward to this like a child anticipates Christmas morning. And after a full year of appointments of a less thrilling nature I feel like an excited girl.
In the morning I dress for work with my wig, already hotflashing as I begin a busy schedule of negotiating three contracts. Hotflashes are going to remain a way of life for the five years I'm supposed to take Femara, the anti-cancer wonder pill. So by afternoon I am enthusiastically sliding into my hairdresser's chair throwing of my trusted disguise that has seen me through many tough days. My own hair is four inches long and two-toned from the color job my daughter did at the end of my radiation in April. The ends are a pale mousy brown and the roots mostly white.
Courtland is a tall lanky blonde. Her hair falls nearly to her waist in a silky curtain. I know, only because she's told me, she is ten years older than she looks. She is pretty and sweet and soft spoken and she's determined and excited about my coming out hairdo. She wants me to "really really love it". I remind her I will be happy with anything. I've never been so unpicky. This is more exciting to me than next Spring's foob job, my pending reconstruction.
As she washes and colors and cuts, my mind wanders to the days I pulled handfuls of hair from my head. I remember the painful scalp, my husband shaving the remains, the strange nakednes and how cold it made me feel. I remember the pink cap I lived in and even wore through surgery. And I remember the stranger I faced in the mirror. All of the year tumbles through my mind right up to now. And I am left with the precious memories of feeling loved and cherished through the whole ordeal and knowing I rested in the arms of God.
Three hours later, I am not disappointed. She's done her best to copy the Annette Bening photo I've brought and I leave with a short, dark-brown-with-highlights cut that is young and spiky. But if you'd seen me leave you'd only have noticed a happy customer with a huge smile. I feel free out in public without my wig.
Yet, even as I write this I'm keenly aware of a friend who is on chemo for life - never to run her fingers through her hair again. And little Kate McRae who is losing her five-year old golden locks at this moment as chemicals do battle with her brain tumor. So I will just be grateful for today, for this silly little joy.
A couple of days ago my husband left early before I was dressed. He popped into my office shortly after I arrived. He said he just came to see how I looked. "You always dazzle me in the morning" he said. I realized, though he never complains, I come home at night hollaring "hello" down the hall as I beeline to my closet to remove my wig and prosthetic bra and change into my lounging garb. After not seeing me all day, he sees a wig-flattened head of oddly colored hair atop a flat chested boyish figure. We're halfway back.
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