I had my hair done today. By ‘done’ I don’t mean I had my neck tidied up of the wispy bits or one or two split ends cut off, no. By ‘done’ I mean washed, cut and blow dried. For the first time in more than two years.
My hair has been growing back since I finished chemotherapy in June 2015. I’ve kept it tidy as its grown and regularly visited my dear friend and hairdresser, Emma (the very same Emma who cut the whole lot off for me in the dark days of February 2015) to keep it in good shape. I’ve tried rocking the skinhead, the quiff, the fringe (never worked) and plenty of other less than attractive styles during this time, but secretly, ever so secretly it was growing.
And nobody noticed.
One Sunday about a month ago we had nothing planned for the day. We weren’t going to see anyone or go anywhere or do anything that required me to look up together or like I’d not been dragged through a hedge backwards so I took the plunge. After washing my hair I scrunched some product through it and left it to dry naturally. No quiff, no rockabilly scarf, no diamante clips or flowery slides, just my hair. Naked, if you like.
Initially no one in my household commented (though I suspect this is to do with them being male rather than anything else) and I pursued my morning of housework catch up and homework chivvying with the unfamiliarly annoying sensation of hair falling in my face.
Once it had nearly dried itself I took myself off to my bedroom and pondered it. It was long enough to wear down. It fell naturally into a short bob, a short bob which looked like a deliberate act of hairdressing; I have Emma to thank for that because it certainly hadn’t been planned that way. I picked up my hairdryer, put it on the low setting and gently finished off the last damp bits. I popped some more product through it to tame the frizz – the one thing that hadn’t changed about it – sat on the bed and marvelled. Even for me this hair was a surprise.
My curls weren’t as prominent as I’d hoped. I was never sure if it was an old wives tale that if you had straight hair before chemo it would grow back curly and if you had curly hair before it would grow back straight, but I seemed to be living proof of the latter. This was one of the many things which had concerned me about my hair loss due to cancer treatment; I had taken years to decide that I actually loved my curls.
I am lucky; I have been blessed with good hair (well, I’ve got to be blessed with something, somewhere, haven’t I?!). My mother always told me my hair was my crowning glory and that I should always take good care of it, and while I might not have adhered to very many of the things my mother told me I should, I did stick to that directive. When it was all shaved off my mum was nearly as upset as I was. But we sucked it up. Just like we sucked up everything
else.
Breast cancer strips women of the things which make us female, then breast cancer treatment strips away even more. I didn’t feel confident enough about saying this beforehand because I wasn’t quite sure it was the case, but since my hair has been long (ish) again I can definitely say that as far as my female identity goes, losing my hair was far more traumatic than losing my breast. I need to reiterate – this is not about the cancer and how that made me feel – this is about my self image.
Obviously there will be people out there who will disagree with me but that’s fine, because this isn’t about them. There will also be people out there who consider me selfish, petty, small minded and trivial that I’m even deliberating about my looks when the bigger picture is about cancer, but it’s not about them either. This is about me, as a woman, divested of something which has identified me for all of my life. Me, as a woman, looking in the mirror a month ago and seeing – for the first time in over two years – a glimmer of the woman I used to be. Me, as a woman, spotting a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I might not always feel inadequate.
And this isn’t some sort of body conscious philosophising based on the expectations men and the media have put on women about how they look. This isn’t a big statement about how society thinks, these views are my own. These views are about me. And I can categorically tell you now that having the beginnings of my old hair back is just about the most confidence boosting thing I could have hoped for in a time when my mental health remains unstable.
You see, it does matter how I look. I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t give a monkeys what they see when they look in the mirror, but be honest, how many people do you actually know who are truly like that? I had all those months of puffy baldness, baggy trousers and shoes a size bigger than my feet. I want to take care of myself and do the inconsequential things that make such a difference, like painting my nails, whacking on the lippy and clip clopping around in a pair of heels because I couldn’t do it when I was ill. I’m not playing into society’s hands or toeing the male chauvinist line, I am woman.
It’s noticeable that my hair is blue today. I’m thinking of going blonde next, I’ve never been blonde. After all, it’s only hair, isn’t it?
Find me on Instagram and Twitter @Baldybitesback
My hair has been growing back since I finished chemotherapy in June 2015. I’ve kept it tidy as its grown and regularly visited my dear friend and hairdresser, Emma (the very same Emma who cut the whole lot off for me in the dark days of February 2015) to keep it in good shape. I’ve tried rocking the skinhead, the quiff, the fringe (never worked) and plenty of other less than attractive styles during this time, but secretly, ever so secretly it was growing.
And nobody noticed.
One Sunday about a month ago we had nothing planned for the day. We weren’t going to see anyone or go anywhere or do anything that required me to look up together or like I’d not been dragged through a hedge backwards so I took the plunge. After washing my hair I scrunched some product through it and left it to dry naturally. No quiff, no rockabilly scarf, no diamante clips or flowery slides, just my hair. Naked, if you like.
Initially no one in my household commented (though I suspect this is to do with them being male rather than anything else) and I pursued my morning of housework catch up and homework chivvying with the unfamiliarly annoying sensation of hair falling in my face.
Once it had nearly dried itself I took myself off to my bedroom and pondered it. It was long enough to wear down. It fell naturally into a short bob, a short bob which looked like a deliberate act of hairdressing; I have Emma to thank for that because it certainly hadn’t been planned that way. I picked up my hairdryer, put it on the low setting and gently finished off the last damp bits. I popped some more product through it to tame the frizz – the one thing that hadn’t changed about it – sat on the bed and marvelled. Even for me this hair was a surprise.
My curls weren’t as prominent as I’d hoped. I was never sure if it was an old wives tale that if you had straight hair before chemo it would grow back curly and if you had curly hair before it would grow back straight, but I seemed to be living proof of the latter. This was one of the many things which had concerned me about my hair loss due to cancer treatment; I had taken years to decide that I actually loved my curls.
I am lucky; I have been blessed with good hair (well, I’ve got to be blessed with something, somewhere, haven’t I?!). My mother always told me my hair was my crowning glory and that I should always take good care of it, and while I might not have adhered to very many of the things my mother told me I should, I did stick to that directive. When it was all shaved off my mum was nearly as upset as I was. But we sucked it up. Just like we sucked up everything
else.
Breast cancer strips women of the things which make us female, then breast cancer treatment strips away even more. I didn’t feel confident enough about saying this beforehand because I wasn’t quite sure it was the case, but since my hair has been long (ish) again I can definitely say that as far as my female identity goes, losing my hair was far more traumatic than losing my breast. I need to reiterate – this is not about the cancer and how that made me feel – this is about my self image.
Obviously there will be people out there who will disagree with me but that’s fine, because this isn’t about them. There will also be people out there who consider me selfish, petty, small minded and trivial that I’m even deliberating about my looks when the bigger picture is about cancer, but it’s not about them either. This is about me, as a woman, divested of something which has identified me for all of my life. Me, as a woman, looking in the mirror a month ago and seeing – for the first time in over two years – a glimmer of the woman I used to be. Me, as a woman, spotting a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, I might not always feel inadequate.
And this isn’t some sort of body conscious philosophising based on the expectations men and the media have put on women about how they look. This isn’t a big statement about how society thinks, these views are my own. These views are about me. And I can categorically tell you now that having the beginnings of my old hair back is just about the most confidence boosting thing I could have hoped for in a time when my mental health remains unstable.
You see, it does matter how I look. I wish I could be one of those people who doesn’t give a monkeys what they see when they look in the mirror, but be honest, how many people do you actually know who are truly like that? I had all those months of puffy baldness, baggy trousers and shoes a size bigger than my feet. I want to take care of myself and do the inconsequential things that make such a difference, like painting my nails, whacking on the lippy and clip clopping around in a pair of heels because I couldn’t do it when I was ill. I’m not playing into society’s hands or toeing the male chauvinist line, I am woman.
It’s noticeable that my hair is blue today. I’m thinking of going blonde next, I’ve never been blonde. After all, it’s only hair, isn’t it?
Find me on Instagram and Twitter @Baldybitesback