In contrast to the smiley man in the previous Snippet, I think I might be losing my hair. I’m so certain of it that I’m not even going to post a photo of the back of my head to prove it to you, because it’s too embarrassing.
Back when I got diagnosed with cancer and it was assumed I would be having chemo, I actually went wig shopping with a friend of mine, and then went to Bledi-with-Scizzors (I didn’t spell that wrong) and had him cut me a bob just so I could start getting used to something different. But then I didn’t end up needing chemo, so I simply kept the bob for a while and then grew it out.
Although I’ve never had an easy time with my hair, I wouldn’t want to be without it, and it’s always been nice and thick. Every so often I’ll go through a phase where I seem to be shedding more than usual, but it’s never constant and I’ve never noticed much of a decrease in mass or volume . . . until recently. Recently, I’ve been pulling out handfuls of hair in the shower, in the way that women who have lost theirs to chemo describe it. I’ve also not been blow-drying it, but simply braiding it wet, because it’s been so hot here this summer. A couple of times, when I used a handheld mirror to see how the braid had come out in the back, I noticed a little queasily that the crown of my head seemed to be showing through my hair. I was hoping that it was just how I had pulled the braid strands, but yesterday I took a better look and have pretty much decided that that is not what is happening. It’s starting to make the passage where Jesus says not to worry because “even the hairs of your head are numbered” sound more ominous than I’ve ever thought it sounded before. And hey–I wasn’t worried. Until I started realising the hairs of my head are numbered.
“I’m going bald!” I cried out.
“Let me see,” said my Paul from his recliner in the living room. I went over and knelt down so he could look at the back of my head. “Oh,” he said soothingly. “It’s just your part. You just happen to have . . . an inch-wide one.”
I wailed again.
“Don’t comb over it,” he said. “Shave your head. You’ll look cute.”
He seems charitably unaware that if I did that I would look like Dopey of the Seven Dwarves, because my ears stick out and my head is the wrong shape to pull of a successful Sinead O’Connor look.
Then he started fantasising about the kind of wigs I could get. I guess it’s comforting to know my husband will still love me if I go bald, but still. I’d rather not.