Trial run

I did something new this weekend. I went to a craft fair in Massachusetts with my friend, the gallery-owner. That’s not the new part. I’ve gone to several such events with her, and many more on my own. It was a perfect day for it, one of those glorious spring days you wish could last throughout the year. She picked out things for her store and I window-shopped.

The new part is that I went wigless.

I’ve been thinking about my hair a lot, now that it looks like I may keep it with this new treatment. It’s grown back to about the length it was last Thanksgiving, which is to say, it’s just barely long enough to cover my head. I’ve been hoping for it to grow in curly, but it’s still too early to tell if it will. As before, it’s completely white, and not quite a hairdo. It needs another month or so before it will look “intentional.”

I have taken off my wig in the company of friends before. It’s easy with people I trust and so much more comfortable. I figured that going wigless among strangers would be a good next test for me. And I didn’t feel uncomfortable or self-conscious about it at all, even when we ran into people we knew. In fact, the only comments were compliments.

As with all things new and fearsome, the anticipation was much worse than the actuality. Self-consciousness is certainly self-defeating! Why should the prospect of appearing in public in a different guise upset me as it does? I can’t answer that except to say that if this were easy for me, I’d have to be a different person.

The final frontier will be going to my client, where I’ve been working onsite about once a week for the past couple of years. I’ll have to mull it over a while longer before I show up there in the buff, so to speak.

Feathers

“Wanna see something funny?” I asked my daughter recently while lifting off my wig.

“You’re covered with fuzz!” she exclaimed. “How cute.”

It’s been several weeks since my last Abraxane infusion, the drug that caused me to lose my hair. My head is now covered with hair, feathery and white. It’s not long enough to really keep me from looking bald, and there’s a good chance I’ll lose it again. But in the meantime, it’s pointing the way to what I have to look forward to.

Sometime in the not too distant future I have a decision to make. I would so love to be free of the expensive and time-consuming color habit I never wanted to start in the first place, but once started, I’ve faithfully maintained for the past fifteen or so years. I’m genetically disposed to white hair, but it’s something I was never prepared to welcome on my head. It reminds me too much of my grandmother, who had the snowiest of snow white hair from the earliest I remember her. Now when I see pictures of my young grandmother in her mid-forties, I’m amazed at her young face. That white hair was such a striking statement of “old” that I never got past.

The wig I wear is very close in color to what my hair salon came up with for years. It’s a good match for what my color used to be. But as we age, our skin tone mellows. Mother Nature is the perfect colorist and what she has come up with for me now is white hair to go with my toned down skin. When I see myself bare-headed in the mirror I’m struck with how the halo of white actually brightens up my face.

But then there’s the “old” thing. White hair will always seem old. Am I ready for it? Such a dilemma!

I’d like to post a picture here, but I’ll give it a couple more weeks to grow in before I have another Abraxane reaction and it starts falling out again. Maybe my friends can help me decide. Although, truth be known, who's actually going to tell me I look old?!

I wish I had the nerve...

One of my favorite features in New York Magazine is a two-page spread called The Look Book, in which columnist Amy Larocca interviews someone on the street with notable style. The text is minimal; Q&A mostly about how the person describes their own look and where they got the clothes they’re wearing. When you rotate the magazine 90-degrees, it appears as kind of a sidebar to a large picture that takes up most of the two pages.

The current issue features a young woman with alopecia named Sam Rudolph. Alopecia is a condition that causes hair loss, and she has been bald since the age of seven. If you follow the link above, you can see her picture. She’s wearing huge sunglasses, nothing at all on her head, and she's lovely. The article ends with a fantastic quote:

Q: "How do you feel about being bald now?"

A: "Obviously, good enough to look like this. My mother always said my life would be easier if I just wore a wig, but I don’t want to hide who I am. Being bald is a big part of my life, and if I cover it up, it starts to feel like everything is fake."

This all has so much relevance to me now. I don't have the flair or the youth to pull it off, but I'd love to walk through the streets naked-headed! My wig is very natural looking and most people don't even know I'm wearing one. But it gets uncomfortable, particularly on hot days.

If I only had the nerve....

It’s real

There’s something about losing your hair…. Now that I’m bald, it’s hard to deny anymore that I am undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. It’s an undeniable and irreversible milestone.

Yes, I know it will grow back eventually, and hopefully even curlier than before. But for now it feels like I’ve reached the point of no return.

For the most part, I’ve experienced very little in the way of side effects. In the past three weeks, there was one day when I was feverish, and a couple more when I had a rash of symptoms, including a fainting spell that may have been hypoglycemic and not related to the treatment at all. I haven’t been nauseous in the slightest, which is something to rejoice about. I’ve had headaches that may be due to meds, but are more likely coming from stress, and some low energy days filled with naps. But as far as the horrors of chemo I’d heard about beforehand, this is relatively simple.

Except for the hair.

It’s been hot, so I like going naked-headed to keep cool when I’m alone in the house. I can avoid mirrors pretty successfully, but there are unanticipated reflections all over the place: in windows when it’s dark outside, my laptop screen when I boot up, the oven door, the television screen, the glass in picture frames. These things are all over the house. My eyes travel to where I usually look, and I’m greeted by ET, an alien from another planet! It’s really weird.

More adventures with hair

In an attempt to be proactive, I went online to gather information about wig salons and, to my surprise, found a store not far from where I live that works hand-in-hand with insurance companies. Tiffany Wigs claims to be “the only in-network insurance provider in the Tri-State area.” I called and arranged to come right in for a consultation.

The store owner is a tough, spirited, cancer survivor who was given three months to live… fourteen years ago. We had a lot to talk about while I tried on wigs. She helped me pick out a really nice curly style very close to my own color and length. It’s top drawer, human hair, expensive.

But Phyllis insists that all she needs is a prescription and diagnosis code from my oncologist to get the whole bill paid by my insurance company. Her contract with the insurer means they’ll pay her directly without anything out of pocket from me. She says there's a one wig per lifetime benefit, so might as well make it a really good one.

I hope it works out the way she says.

My hair

Two years ago, my friend Susan introduced me to a salon that specializes in curly hair. At the time, I was getting haircuts in a local salon near my house that specializes in mostly unimaginative styling. My hair had changed over the years and I'd given up on ever having curls again. I whined about missing my curls and wanting to let it grow, but somehow, I always walked out of there with the same short, blow-dried-straight, middle-aged-suburban do I saw in every chair around me. I wondered whose head it was anyway!

The first time I went to Devachan, Susan was getting her hair cut there. Whereas every salon I've ever been in washed hair first before cutting it, Rosie cut Susan's hair dry. She stared intently as she trimmed and placed each curl in its proper place on Susan's head. She was an artist finding the balance that perfectly set off Susan's face.

Rose looked up from Susan's hair long enough to comment on my nice curly hair. She won me over. I made the soonest appointment I could, and I've spent the past two years growing and nurturing the curls Rosie managed to unleash.

This evening I went to Devachan again for an impromptu consultation. My doctor says I'm going to lose my hair from the chemo. I went to the place I'm so fond of for advice about buying and caring for a wig. I got the information I need to go shopping this weekend. Then I'll take the wig back there for styling so I'll be ready to put it on when I lose my hair. I just don't fancy the thought of appearing in public bald.

Comfort Zone

I'm a pretty private person. I don’t normally volunteer a lot of personal details, and I find lots of ways to avoid feeling exposed. This blog is a huge departure from that.

“That’s not my way,” my ex commented when I told him I’d started one. But I suppose this is a way for me to throw rocks at the enemy. Get in the first shot and hurl something – even if it’s just words – with intensity. Keep it from getting so dark around me I can’t notice something creeping up to grab me.

Besides, my experience tells me the most devastating fears are reactions to the unknown. I easily get paralyzed when I don’t know what’s coming or from which direction. The panic I’ve witnessed in myself and others has all radiated from the question: “What’s going to happen to me?” Simply asking that question implies passiveness and lack of control that adds fuel to the burning fear.

For my peace of mind, I’m trying to keep lights shining on the issues. Huge floodlights. Get enough information to make decisions and plans and keep my priorities straight.

But I’m way outside my comfort zone.