Why I’m Buzzing my Hair Before it Falls out
Preemptive shaving is like having a boyfriend you’re fond of and want to keep around until a trusted friend tells you he is going to break up with you soon. Why not beat him to it and break it off before he can?
The salesperson at the lingerie store asks me how my day is going, which I answer superficially, “Fine, how about yours?” What if I tell her what’s actually going on, that later on my hairdresser is coming over to buzz my head even though I’m not really losing my hair yet. Why this preemptive step?
Every day I look at my pillow and brush, worrying when the process will start, the slow and sad process of hair loss after the first chemo. The memories from 17 years ago are vivid, at first a few hairs sticking to my pillow and clinging to my clothes at work. I fondly remember a colleague picking off stray hairs from my shoulder and back in the teacher lounge before class. Suddenly hair starts falling out with a vengeance, in clumps, making brushing and shampooing a delicate exercise. I start looking like a zombie with random wisps of hair. My then nine-year-old youngest son tells me I look scary. During a shower one morning, my eyes closed and shampoo running down, I feel something big glide down my leg. I don’t remember using that much shampoo, I think to myself. When I open my eyes, there’s a large clump of hair, the rest of my head, lying defeated near the drain. I sob.
This time I consider “cold caps,” a process of freezing the scalp to retain most of the hair. I even set it up, but I avoid scheduling it. Waffling between my options, I ask a friend why I am so indecisive. She helps me realize that I’m avoiding the call because I don’t really want to do it. I wonder if, generally, avoidance is cloaked dislike. Still recovering from five surgeries, anxious about chemo, and uneasy about the pain of freezing my scalp and the time it takes—4 extra hours for each infusion—I resist the additional challenge. I decide to yield to waking up each morning for months to a bald head. Maybe I would make a different choice if my body wasn’t battered, like a friend of mine during her second and third rounds of chemo. She doesn’t want the constant reminder, the well-meaning questions from others; she wants to keep her life as normal as possible, to maintain her business. Only her family and close friends know. For her, cold caps make sense, for me hair loss. I will, however, choose my method!
Preemptive shaving is like having a boyfriend you’re fond of and want to keep around until a trusted friend tells you he is going to break up with you soon. Why not beat him to it and break it off before he can? This time I refuse to let hair loss happen to me. I want to make a clean break and avoid the slow letdown of watching, wondering, and whining. It’s an act of defiance, yes, the defiance of Sisyphus, but it’s something. It offers a little bit of control, a choice, which ends up being more significant than I know at the time. (“Shave Angel”)
I imagine honestly telling the clerk about my day and realize that I often make assumptions or judgments about strangers, even friends. They look good, say the right things, so I think they must be fine, even good people, or they look or act badly, and I make bad assumptions. Appearances may just be appearances. Not far below the surface of a seemingly normal day shopping for underwear, layers of deep feeling may reside. I’m reminded that you never know what someone’s day is really like so it’s best to reserve judgment.
Thank you for reading this blog post! I’d love to hear how this story impacted you or someone you know and/or any stories you’d like to share. Click here to contact me. - Sheri