On My Own Terms, Part Deux

As my hair fell out in clumps last week, I realized the importance of a buzz cut.  Short and to the point (literally), my hair was almost all gone, just a 5-o'clock stubble in its place.  I was pleasantly surprised to feel the empowerment of GI Jane, rather than the sadness of losing my hair.

Yesterday, after my shower, I ran my hair over my stubble - and found my hand covered in little tiny hairs.  I rubbed my hand back-and-forth - and they rained into the sink like dry pine needles off an old Christmas tree.  I checked the shower and found the tub ringed in little black hairs.

My hair was taking it's second - and final - leave.

I put on a scarf and tried to slide it to the left a little, and the pain was excruciating.  Interestingly, pulling hair out in handfuls doesn't hurt, but the little hairs that hang on after shaving are like shards of glass implanted in your head.  They lay in a certain way, and to move them backwards against the grain feels like running a Chore Boy over your bare skin. 

I spent all day wondering what to do.  I was told to be careful with shaving - the risk of infection from cuts and all.  By 3:30, I realized I couldn't lay my head down without feeling a thousand pins sticking into my head from all angles.  I didn't know how I would sleep if I couldn't lay my head on a pillow.

And so I ventured into the bathroom.  45 minutes, one dull razor and half a can of shaving cream later, I am now officially bald.

Shaving your own head is an adventure.  There are little spots behind your ears, on the very back of your head, and on your neck that are impossible to catch on the first pass.  There is a spot on the top of your head, where your hair sprouts from, that has a grain that runs in several different directions at once, which means you need to pass over that area from multiple different angles to catch all the hairs.  And forget looking in the mirror - my brain has never been able to process doing things flipped and reversed.

I don't have a picture, because I don't like it.  When I was finally finished and I looked in the mirror, I felt like Samson - all my empowerment was gone with those final, stray stubbles of hair.  My head is grey, untouched by 48 years of sun and fun, and the pores still hold the remnants of follicles.  Ken tells me I am still beautiful, but I begged him to let me feel ugly for a little while.  There is nothing beautiful in this, this look, this reminder, this final leaving of the hair.  And when I look in my face I see half my eyebrows, only a select few eyelashes.  My legs have been bare for over a week now, and my arms are freezing without their tiny little blonde hairs. 

I joked that I would completely rock the Uncle Fester look - but now that it's here, I'm not so sure.