Hair

Today it’s all about hair. It’s one of the most divisive things about chemotherapy. People often ask “Will my hair fall out?” hoping that it might not. With my type of chemotherapy, it invariably does. If you’ve been reading along with my blog you’ll probably be very unsurprised to hear that I wasn’t really that bothered. I love change. Besides having my hair washed, the best part of going to the hairdresser is the snipping of scissors and the reveal at the end, the transformation. The new me. Do you enjoy that? 

Knowing that I didn’t have to go to work, and that my hair would fall out allowed me to pretend I was a daft young thing again, and

with the help of my super mate, Cathy, I bleached then dyed my hair a variety of colours, blue, purple, lilac. We cut it shorter and shorter, including into a mohican (which I miss, deeply) culminating in me shaving it as a number two guard, then a one, before it fell out.

It falls out quickly, all within a week for me, and not the most fun. I was glad I’d made it very short, because I could notice less that it was going, but when I lay down, or rested my head, it was as though little needles were prickling my head, as the hair detached but hadn’t fallen. I was glad when that was done with to be completely honest.

But people feel very protective about their hair, it’s a big part of their identity and it’s a trauma for them when it falls out. I understand that. There are treatments which you can have to try and save your hair, using a cold cap. It wasn’t for me, but my chemo buddy used it, to keep her appearance the same for her little girl, and it looked unpleasant. 

It’s a sort of liquid filled rugby scrum cap which is strapped to your pre-dampened head approximately an hour before your chemo session starts. Very cold water is pumped through the cap to chill your follicles. You then have your chemo, wearing the cap, then you wear it for another hour. Imagine an ice-cream headache for two to three hours, with no ice-cream. Not for me. Often my pal’s hair would be frozen to the cap at the end, and it had to be carefully unstuck to avoid snapping the hair. No vanilla, or mint chocolate chip or anything. No thanks. 

Another option is to get a wig. I was prescribed one. I went and selected it before my chemo started so that I at least felt well when I did. This also worked well as I chose the venue in Manchester and combined my trip with a nice lunch. Any excuse! I could have had a wig which was very similar to my hair. I decided that wasn’t my style, and the I’d rather have something very different, so I opted for a long silver blonde wig with gentle waves, which I refer to as my Emmylou Harris, or tame Dolly Parton. I love it, but it’s hot, and I only wore it once at home when I was ill, and almost gave the postman a heart attack. Which I’ll tell you all about the some other time. 

So no wig for me, and no hair. I didn’t think I’d be bothered about my hair falling out, and I wasn’t, in general. It was miles quicker in the shower, and allowed me to have my head painted with a henna design, which was wonderful. Decorative and empowering, I felt totally at ease with no scarf on with my henna, because I knew that people were staring at me because my head was so lovely. I was hugely glad I’d done that. It was the very understanding and wonderful http://www.heavenlyhenna.co.uk who I went to in Manchester and I can heartily recommend them for a treat, head or otherwise.

I was a little bit self conscious of my head at first, and if I got hot and wanted to remove my scarf, I was aware that folk were staring at me. No surprise there, I was a slightly puffy, increasingly podgy (a lot of cake, no regrets) completely bald woman. It didn’t stop me from removing my scarf when i was out though. I decided that there are enough people who haven’t bothered to wash or brush their hair and think it perfectly acceptable to be in a crowded pub, and my head was perfectly clean and washed. If people had a problem, it was just that. Their problem. 

I learnt a lot about my body and its hair during those months, I learnt that all your hair falls out. I mean all of it. All. I learnt, as was alluded to in the comments on an earlier post, that without hair, going for a wee is a very unpredictable event. I now know what eyelashes do. They stop you getting soap in your eyes. It made no difference whatsoever whether I soaped my face up including my eyelids, or with a panda-esque dry non sud rings, I still got soap in my eyes, and was left, temporarily blinded and cursing, groping for a towel. 

I discovered that my hair began to grow back during the 3 weeks of my chemotherapy cycle. Not properly, but in random, wispy bits, like the last clump of summer grass. Then it would fall out again. So I used to shave it off. With a wet razor. Smooth. Egglike. 

Then it grew back, still patchy. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving is cancer treatment. If it could be a bit trickier, then it is! So I continued to shave it, starting the clippers on the longest guard, and getting shorter until I was shaving some off, to keep it even as it grew. That worked well, and within about four months, I had enough hair to look like a crop. Within eight months I was ready for a proper first hair cut. 

Oh yeah, all the scary predictions, was it a new colour? No. Was it curly? Yes, but only until that first cut, it’s back to its old self now.