I once had a dear friend say to me, “let your freak flag fly.” I never considered that a challenge but have found it a fitting phrase of late. Judging from my comrades in the photos, age must be everything to pulling off this look. Well, age and good genes, a handful of stylists and perhaps a plastic surgeon or two.
“Holy hair follicles bat man, she’s bald!” Days 13 and 14 (after the first chemo treatment) the shedding began. By days 17 and 18 hair was dropping like leaves in November. I’d get in the shower and scrub my itchy head, then clean the drain. My yoga mat was dusted with hair and I struggled with a scarf to contain the drift—after class a friend gently offered to shave my head. It was smooth, cold and my hat struggled to stay on the slick surface. Though I was quickly sporting soft gray stubble, the wig has taken on a practical nature because of the weather. As well, I sleep in a cotton cap to keep my head warm and wear a hat indoors.
I’ve never been one to get too attached to a hairstyle, so the lack of hair hasn’t rocked my world. I still have the same eyes, smile, boobs, hips, legs, skin and soul. My kids smile and shrug, its no big deal 'round here.
I’m thinking of getting a tattoo on my head, something to tie into the cool, cancer-assassin theme. Ok, maybe not.
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