Gone, baby, gone

Sayonara, hair. Not sure if I look like Sluggo, one or both of my brothers, or a prison bitch (the girl kind), but I'm definitely almost hairless.

Yesterday I was able to begin pulling my hair out of my head in clumps, and although I expected it, it was still a bit shocking. By the time I was putting the girls into bed, I was all wound up about the fact that "the moment" had arrived and I wasn't ready for it. After the goodnights I wallowed in bed for a few minutes crying about being bald and being seen as sick first and Carissa second. Pete told a few crass jokes and then made me feel better and I decided I couldn't have the hair on my head a second longer.

The clippers we have are a bit ancient, so Pete suggested the pet clippers we bought for Lucy a few months ago - still new and in the box. I figured using pet clippers to shave me bald seemed about right so we set up barbershop on the deck. I shaved Pete first and he definitely looked a bit like Sluggo, but mostly still like him.

Then it was my turn. He cut my ponytail off first, and for a few minutes I held on to it like it was my pet hamster. Completely surreal. Pete was trying to get me to glance at myself in the sunroom window, but I couldn't bear it. As he shaved and shaved, I saw blonde, then chestnut, then some ashy brown colour fall away, with grey mixed in there. Appalling, really. Twenty years of dying my hair and here I was starting from scratch.

When it was over, I could barely lift my head to show Pete, let alone look in the mirror. I jumped in the shower to wash all the hair bits off and then took a look. Oh my. All nose and eyes and teeth, just as I suspected. And with my shoulders and boobs so, well... so there, I looked like I was prepping for an audition for a hardcore lesbian prison porno flick. Like some Irish bruiser ready to fucking beat you down if you look at me the wrong way.


I went to bed feeling strange, but relieved the day was finally here. When I went in to get Frances in the morning, she barely glanced at my head.

"See? Mommy's bald now. You like it?" I said.

"I want cereal."

When Stella woke up she couldn't stop staring.

"You look different! I have to draw a picture of you now. And, you're gonna wear your scarf and hat, right?!" She was a bit embarrassed. So I wore my hat to drop her off at her summer camp and her teachers said nothing to me.

I visited my parents today and they were a bit taken aback, but good sports. Decided I should have the wig option, just in case there's a cotillion or some other fancy function this summer that a poor boy cap won't do me for. So I left Frances with my dad and brought my mom and her sister Madeline downtown for hair shopping.


Found this little number and figured, what the hell. I'll be red for a few months and give Pete the fire engine he's always wanted.

And so my new hairless life begins. It's super short now, but the hair is easy to pull out so I'll likely be shiny bald in a few days. But don't you look at me the wrong way, beyotch!

Gimme head with hair

There are many milestones in a hetero woman's life (aside from the obvious) that act as little markers of sexual change along the way. The first holler from a passing car, the first time your brother's friend notices you're actually a girl, the first time an ambulance driver or firefighter checks you out and you feel somehow a little less safe in the world. Then there's hair - the head kind. You can grow it, cut it, fluff it, tease it and it causes a reaction outside yourself. It's sexual, but it's also such a gender tag.

I remember some of my first Women's Studies classes at UVic, when I showed up as my tarted 18-year old self, knee socks, hot pants, determined that I was controlling all the gazes around me. Within 30 days I changed into a leggings and over-sized fisherman sweater-wearing girl who donned fakenstocks borrowed from her mother and put her hair in a bun every day. I was friends with bi girls, dykes, trannies, pre- and post-ops and realized I knew absolutely nothing about sexuality.

I've learned a couple 'o things since then, but one constant has been the ability to control sexual signals through my hair - and I don't mean by making it look perfect every day, cuz I ain't nothing if not a girl in a love-hate relationship with her hair. I'm talking about taking my tresses and deciding what part of the girl story about me I want to portray to the world. It's a tiny bit of power in a fucked up world.

In a few days, I'll likely lose my hair and there's nothing I can do about it. My cancer twin, S, says that the anticipation of losing it is worse than the actual loss, but she's got a lovely, classic beauty about her. I'm all angles and teeth and bone and ridgey skull and fear I may scare small animals with my impending baldness.

But I wait. And I use my thickening shampoo like an idiot every day. Tugging here and there to see if any loosens. I haven't decided on the wig route yet. I haven't decided whether I'll bare it in public, but I do know I'm more freaked out about this than I'll ever let on out loud.

In the meantime, I have my friend, C, who was bald by choice back in the day and looked pretty rockin. Here she is with me and another friend around 15+ years ago, looking like the saucy girl she's always been. I'll take inspiration where I can get it.