A (Shiny) New Day

All week the hair has been leaving, falling like dead pine needles from a months' old Christmas tree. The first night I take a long, hot shower, running my hand back and forth over my head to loosen and remove as many tiny hairs as possible.  The shower is ringed with little black specks, and as I towel-dry I see a cloud of small hairs fly to the floor.  By the second night my scalp has become tender, the dying hair poking me in a thousand places, desperate to be free of my scalp.  At this moment, I realize it's time to pull out the Big Guns:

The sticky-tape lint roller.

Flashback - last time I was at this point, my desperation lead me to try Scotch tape, then packing tape, then finally - duct tape.  The latter took not only my hair, but small pieces of my scalp.  I was left with a red and tender head, as well as a tongue-lashing from my dear friend and fellow survivor Jennifer, who reminded me of the magical benefits of the lint roller.

I roll the sticky roller over my head from front to back - and come away with a tapeful of small hairs.  No pain, no stray pieces of scalp - just flecks of hair everywhere.  A few more passes, and the tape is completely covered in hair.  Another piece of tape, then another...a dozen more and I can clearly see my scalp in several places.  I decide to give my poor head a rest for the night, slap on my sleeping cap and call it good.

The next night I tackle the lint-rollering with renewed gusto.  My intention is not to leave the bathroom until all the hair has been removed from my head.

Half an hour and 15 sheets of tape later, and I now resemble a dog with a bad case of mange:

 

Once again I give up, defeated by my own fleeing hair.  There is far more than I realized, and this stupid-sticky process is clearly going to take more time and energy than I have at this moment.

I slap a hat on my head for work on Friday, tugging it front and back, front and back, pulling down the sides, terrified someone will see the bald patches peeking out.  I check myself frequently in the mirror in the bathroom, not wanting to reveal the secret.  Probably no one cares, but it's hard not to feel obvious in the very act of trying not to be obvious.  

 In the evening I run through another half-dozen sticky tapes before I give up and realize the time has come for more drastic action.  Being the low-maintenance (read: lazy) kind of middle-aged woman that I am, my only razor blade hasn't seen action in a couple of weeks, and I'm pretty sure it's about as good as my piano-playing skills:  Once crisp and sharp with nary a miss or nick, but rusty as an old nail and just about as useful.  A trip to the store is in order before this hair-removal can continue.

(Just briefly, I consider the cold-wax strips I keep under the bathroom sink for "emergencies", but slowly replace them and take a giant step back as I am reminded of The Duct Tape Debacle.  Never again...)

On Saturday, sharp 5-blade razor in hand, I finally begin the process of shaving.  There is still much to be removed, and I slowly run the blade front-to-back, then side-to-side, cutting down the little pine needles in their tracks.  Up my neck and down behind my ears; the little swirl at the top of my head where I have to work in all four directions to catch every little stubble.  I stop with more to go, suddenly and utterly exhausted.  On Sunday morning with renewed determination I change out the blade and complete the task at hand, er, head. 

Finally.  Complete.

I am beautifully bald.  My head is cold and shiny, my scalp white with some Dalmation-black patches of shaved follicles left behind. My hats are now a little loose and slidey, but they cover enough without being too obvious.  

I miss my hair, but I'm glad it's finally gone.  The anticipation of waiting for the hairfall and encouraging its leaving, is almost worse than it being gone.

Last Tuesday, after buzzing my hair down, my husband Ken posted this on Facebook.  I wanted to share it here because his voice is rarely heard in this story, and yet he is so much a part of this journey as we walk this cancer path together.

"The Hair in My Hand"

This evening, for the second time in 4 years, I buzzed my Nancy's hair.  It was time.  The results of just one chemo treatment was taking its toll on fast growing cells -- like those in hair and, I desperately pray, every last one of those sneaky little shits (cancer cells).

The hair that remains is consigned to a quick departure. We may buzz it shorter in a few more days. But very soon it will all be gone; every last tiny follicle.

My Nancy looks amazingly beautiful with her "naked top", and I don't say that just to be "comforting" or supportive to this woman I love.  Her long dangling earrings, the cool hats she recently bought, the scarves she wears gypsie-style, and those magical eyes that seem bigger than ever, all add to her... well, let me just put it bluntly... hotness. (Yeah, baby!)

I would rather this non-hair style that's returning was a thing of choice, a seasonal whimsy, and not the result of medication (targeted poison). Yet I know it's being infused to give an ass whooping street fight kind of beat down to the F~€¥\@# cancer. 

While I truly appreciate it when I hear people say they're sorry that this villain has returned, I get a rush of strength when I hear "this totally sucks", "kick it's ass", or other things about it that might peel the paint off a barn.

My heartfelt best wishes to those with a loved one going through something similar. Now let's all get out there and kick its ass with no mercy!