As soon as I had my diagnosis I had the thought that I would end up bald. Even though in the early days the chances were that I wouldn’t have to have chemo, the image of a bald me went through my head almost immediately. There was a chap on Neighbours many years ago (well, the nineties) who had cancer and I still remember the scene when his girlfriend helped him shave his head. It seemed terribly dramatic at the time and stayed with me. I can’t remember his name, but I can remember thinking he looked really quite handsome with a number one. Lots of men do. Including my lovely hubby.
Sadly, whatever anyone says, unless you’ve made the definite and serious choice to have a Sinead O’Connor cut, coming to terms with being a baldy female is no fun at all. Alright, I can carry it well enough provided I whack on the bright red lips and the (waterproof) black mascara but the looks I get are far from admiring – they’re confused.
I decided to do it before the chemo starts. I decided to do it at half term which would give me the chance to recover from the shock in the bosom of my family on a holiday in Bude. I decided my boys needed to get used to it and that I really, really didn’t want to get up from my bed one morning and leave my hair on the pillow behind me. I still don’t know if this was the right decision; there’s every chance I’ll never know. I question all my decisions these days. Cancer does that.
My dear friend and long time hairdresser, Emma, did the deed. It was all very public as I sat in the window chair of her little salon in the High Street. I went through a strange gamut of emotions; horror, hilarity and oh god I look like my mother. My youngest son documented the entire thing on video (I’ve yet to brave looking at that) and in photographs.
Emma refused payment saying ‘I’m not taking money for doing THAT to you!’ whilst pressing a gift bag of several hats into my hand. I left the salon wearing a black sparkly beanie with cat ears and felt exposed, hot, extremely itchy and weirdly exhilarated. The latter wore off quickly, the itching went after a good shower and the heat is dissipating as my scalp slowly recovers from the shock. The exposure remains, and I fear will only get worse.
The thing is, at the moment with my tidy little number one it could easily look as if my baldy status is a style choice. I’ve got a couple of tattoos and a pierced nose so it’s not that far from the realms of possibility. And I think this is what a: I don’t like and b: confuses people.
I never wanted to be a skinhead; I never even wanted to try it out so despite my party line of aren’t-I-lucky-I’m-able-to-try-this-out-when-it’s-something-I-would-never-have-done-without-cancer-hurrah-for-cancer-and-the-crazy-choices-I’m-able-to-make-that-I-wouldn’t-have-made-without-it I’m a little bit fed up. But then I get cross with myself because normally I wouldn’t describe myself as a vain person but look at me now, moaning about having no hair when in fact the treatment that will cause the no hair will actually keep me alive. How ridiculous is that? Shouldn’t I revel in my new hair and the lease of life it’s giving me? Would you?
The confusion is a really odd one. People study me; I can see it in their eyes trying to work it out. Style choice? Cancer? Style choice? Cancer? The difference is immense. I’m pretty sure most strangers who have seen me have decided that it must be a style choice. Let’s face it, I’m not that old looking, I’ve got two smallish children and I look to be relatively happy (unless you’re one of my long-suffering mates who always gets the worst of me at the moment, you know who you are, sorry) so it can’t be cancer, can it?
I just don’t look like I’ve got cancer, not yet. My skin is still bright, my eyelashes and brows are still present and I seem fairly fit. It’s an exquisite irony that the treatment that gets rids of the cancer is the thing that makes you look like you’ve got it. Once my skin is greying and my hair patchy then everyone will know and the looks will change from confusion to pity. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that.
Maybe by the time I’m rocking scarf-hat-baldy-chic I’ll have come to terms with the fact that I am, after all, a little bit vain. Maybe then I’ll be less hard on myself for giving a toss what other people think. Maybe then I’ll feel so bloody awful from the chemo that I won’t care two hoots about any of this!
And now I’m the confused one.
I’m not less of a person because I’ve had all my hair cut off, I’m not more of a person either, but I’m definitely a slightly different person. I’m not after the compliments and the whooping that greeted the photo of my new look on Facebook (though by crikey, people, your comments helped me get the hang of the new look) or the sympathy that will come with the shiny baldness. I’m after something that won’t be within reach for a little while; which is not to stand out.
But in lieu of that, I’ll take being cancer free.
https://www.justgiving.com/baldys-buddies/