Okay, I'll try to promise that this will be my last post about hair. I know, I know, it's just freakin' hair, but 38 years of having it means that less than one week of it disappearing feels like a major change in a girl's life.
I've spent the last few days molting from my baby chick head, mopping up shower floors and picking up needle-like hairs from the insides of my clothes. When I examined my pillow yesterday morning, it was a lovely shade of brown. So last night I asked Pete to remove the guard from the shaver and go for it. Once again, I was emotional about it, because I knew this would officially bring me into conehead territory, and maybe I'm more the Chris Farley type, but man, that old SNL segment was highly overrated.
So Pete sheared me like a sheep and I watched the last of my hair fall in brown and grey clumps to the floor of our sundeck and I wept. If I was being paid a movie star sum for my new five o'clock shadow head, I'd be more inclined to admire his work, but as it was, I could barely glance into the mirror and still can't bring myself to look for more than a second. It's like looking into an eclipse.
So no more hiding under what could be just a short haircut - I am now that woman in the grocery check-out line who looks like she's dying or sumpthin. I have a whole story assigned to me as I buy stamps, grab a coffee or grab my paper from our carrier. I am cancer girl.
Today I go see my onc for the first time since finding out my scans were clear - a whole three weeks ago. Let's hope she's happy with how round one attacked the tumours so I know this vanity tour will pay off.