One week post op, I am strong enough to stand at the sink and let my husband wash my hair. I still have a drainage tube which prevents me from bathing conventionally. My husband has never washed my hair for me. The last ministration he performed on my head was a manly mid-chemo buzz cut. I can still see the tears in his eyes.
This time, he is all business, my thick mane of hair has returned and needs washing.
He begins by asking me if both bottles I've assembled are really necessary. Yes, I say, please. He uses the pull-out faucet to wet the back of my hair, paying particular attention to the backs of my ears as if he may find a wad of gum parked there. He stops the water and begins applying shampoo from the hairline to my ears using the palms of his hands only. I await the fingers to massage into the scalp but it never happens. It feels awkward and ineffective but I am committed not to direct the process. After a very brief "rub", he appears through, I speak up,"you missed the front and top". It occurs to me, this is how he washes his own hair. He is bald on the front and top. I turn my head to look at him, smiling. "What?" he asks. "It's sweet, what you are doing." I am rewarded with a kiss before he rinses me off. He repeats the process with the conditioner and he is done.
The application of the towel is done carefully and according to wrap-wrap-twist-flick instructions I'd mistakenly assumed were common knowledge. I feel like a new woman with new respect for my hairdresser - the new one that is.
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