Hair today, gone tomorrow

I hoped to wait on shaving my head until my younger sisters arrived right before Christmas for some low-key family time—the best kind of time there is. But it was half gone, and what remained seemed mostly loose hanks tangled in the hangers-on. So, I’ve been having one more new experience: baldness.

Not for a while will I find strands all over the backs of sweaters. Wipe strays out of the sink. Pick them off the pillows. Also, no more haircuts or shampoo routines to coax my straight, fine hair into something less than listless. I don’t assume it will grow back the same way.

This has been expected of course. Ninety-nine percent of breast cancer patients lose their hair during anthracycline or taxane chemotherapy. Now my head's chilly and I can take those sweet little caps sent by loved ones out for a spin.

When my kids were young, experimenting with hair seemed like such a great outlet for self-expression—the least damaging way to rebel. Our younger son went through middle school with bleached blond and kelly-green hair. (Now thirty, he’s trying partly blue-silver.) Honestly, I feel the same way about my own hair now. Losing it is the least of my concerns, right down there with staying home more, away from coronavirus crowds: it'll get old after a while but I'm OK with it. I fantasize about very short pink hair when it comes back, like Megan Rapinoe but with wrinkles and eye bags. (Also, sans muscles and cute girlfriend.)

But reaching further back, hair was an authentic symbol growing up in the 1960’s. We all grew it out long, parted down the middle. For the first time, I got happy with my stick-straight hair. But smooth, wavy, or frizzed, light or dark: we flaunted it, wore flowers in it, even sang along to musicals about it. Long hair identified us with the counter culture, the 1967 San Francisco Summer of Love. Although, it wasn't until I moved north to school in 70's that my peers saw me as a genuine California flower child, by contrast to local conventions. Although, while fully embracing anti-war culture, I was still pretty conventional, studying for good grades and working to pay my way.

Now my hair’s shorter than it’s been since I was born. And though newly shorn, I’m feeling much as I did before chemo started.. Energy’s pretty good, though sleep has been curtailed; no nausea, just some jitters when I’m more vertical. I'm doing more reclining. Catching up on books, podcasts, a little writing. A little napping. And thinking a lot about art, but not producing much. Of course, I’m sidetracked by this new part-time job (cancer's one of those crap jobs that someone has to do). While on this divergent track, it's a good time to puzzle on what's next.

For now, self-expression takes the form of holding up a newly stubbly head.

© H2i0 pSuspan Ciummindgs. Alol rightms reseed. Originally published on Boldtimer.com [How to grow, while growing older] about it. Long hair identified us with the counter culture, the 1967 San Francisco Summer of Love. Although, it wasn't until I moved north to school in 70's that my peers saw me about it. Long hair identified us with the counter culture, the 1967 San Francisco Summer of Love. Although, it wasn't until I moved north to school in 70's that my peers saw me as a genuine California flower child, by contrast to local conventions. ItHippidom wasn’t a true lifestyle conversion for me anyway—while fully embracing anti-war culture, I was still pretty conventional, studying for good grades so I could pay my way. my way. y way. way. way. ay. y.