Hair's the thing

"I didn't marry you for your hair," Bob said. "I married you for all this." 

He pointed to the mantle. "You married me for my decorating?" Well, for sure if he was marrying someone for their hair, it wouldn't have been me. And if he was going to marry someone for their decorating, he could have done worse.

But of course he meant all this. This life we've created together.

This little exchange happened on Christmas morning during a crying jag. I had showered and changed into some new clothes that were gifts from Bob. I was struggling to choose a hat to wear with the outfit. I found one that matched perfectly, which he pointed out. But instead of taking the compliment, I fell apart. "I feel so ugly," I told him. See, there was still the matter of BEING BALD.

During the baldest time, when my head was super smooth and shiny, I was self-conscious about going without a hat even in front of Bob. My appearance had changed so much that I wanted to keep him from feeling any kind of disgust (a harsh word, I know). He was never again going to see me and not remember me being bald.

So why not go with the wig? I planned to. You read about it here. I had the "wig party" at work, had two decent wigs from Cancer Services, and even bought one in a style I had always wanted. I tried "having fun" with it. But in the end I felt like I was putting on a costume every day. The only time it worked for me was when I went with the wig/hat combo. I never got over feeling like everyone taller than me was able to look down on the top of my head and see the webbing underneath. And everyone is taller than me.

Scarves. One morning I got dressed in a classic Polly outfit: a midi skirt, a graphic tee, and my signature denim jacket. Then I looked at my head. Hi, bald. I reached for a cool, fringed scarf I had that would have been a terrific accessory with this edgy outfit. I had, of course, watched a gozillion videos about how to tie a scarf and thought: this is it! I'm going to try it. I got this thing on my head and stood there in the mirror. Bob came in the room, and I think was fighting to keep from laughing out loud. "All I'm missing is an eye patch and a parrot." Scarves were not for me.

So it was hats. Every day a hat. I discovered one style that was cute and gave the illusion that my long, luxurious hair was tucked into it -- I got three of them. One of my favorites was a cute crocheted hat that someone had made specifically to donate to cancer patients. I have a whole suitcase full of hats. I made it all the way through winter with a hat on my head every single day. Instead of spending time fixing my hair, I spent time picking the right hat for the outfit.

While it became part of my routine, it was wearing on me. Hence that meltdown -- and several others like it. I wanted a life where a hat was a choice, not a necessity.

On my old, old blog, a long time ago, I did a story about hair. It was intended as advice for women about how to stop worrying about their hair. You can find it here. The funny thing is, I didn't take my own advice. I still always worried about my hair. Quite a lot. At one point I decided to go all natural and stop coloring it, but after it was all said and done I was disappointed that my real color was so mousy. I didn't go back to coloring it, but thought about it all the time. I was just never going to have great hair.

So as someone who had "just okay hair" why did I have my emotional moments about being bald?

It was a constant, daily reminder that I had cancer.

My hair is growing pretty fast. It's coming back white, and curly. The back has this sort of marcel wave to it. I put in some spiking wax and can make a pretty decent faux hawk (not sure Bob totally approves). Sometimes I even blow dry it, just to be funny. I think it's about 3/4 inch at the most.

So I've got hair again. And it's getting close to the length I had it cut right before the fallout. And guess what? My new hair is a constant, daily reminder that I had cancer.

Like I need another one. This radiation burn is painful and another reminder. My super gross toe is another reminder, thanks chemo. Every time I get winded walking up the stairs, another reminder.

I'm not special. Everyone has things in their lives that are tough. So when I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself (again), I just start praying for you, for whatever trials or hurts you might be facing. I pray for the others in treatment, for the nurses, for family, for co-workers, and for everyone who needs God's love but may not even realize it.

"I consider that the sufferings of this present time are as nothing compared with the glory to be revealed for us." -- Romans 8:18