Cancer Lesson #84: Locks of Love

Cancer Lesson #84: Locks of Love

If I seem a bit obsessed with hair, that’s partly because people associate hair loss with chemo, and not because I’m especially vain about my hair, though I used to be.

My wavy chestnut strands dwindled in importance when I was diagnosed. And when the doc confirmed I would lose those strands with chemo, I decided it made sense to get them cut before surgery. A shorter cut would be easier to care for during my recovery and might make the inevitable loss of hair a little less stressful.

It also made sense to donate the hair instead of leaving it on the salon floor. I was going to be bald, but maybe my hair could help someone suffering a more long-term hair loss.

So, here’s an idea. If you’re making a similar change in hairstyle (hopefully not because you’re going to lose your hair to chemo), perhaps you’d like to donate your clipped ponytail to  Locks of Love.

The process is simple, and it’s a nice thing to do. Just click on the link above for more information.They’ll even send you a certificate of appreciation like the one below.

And, for what it’s worth, you’ll earn my thanks too.certificate-of-appreciation2

 

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Cancer Lesson #74: Happy to Be Here. Happy to Have Hair.

Cancer Lesson #74: Happy to be here. Happy to have Hair.

I find it hard to believe it’s been three and a half years since my last chemo. How could I have had surgery and treatment for cancer, and managed to emerge with a normal life once more?

It boggles my mind.

It’s a new kind of normal, of course. Though they’ve faded, I have scars to rival Frankenstein’s, and — like others who have gone through a bodily trauma — aches and pains I never had before.

For nearly a year, my chemo curls rowdily rioted around my face like the aftermath of a bad perm.

But I’m back to playing soccer, and last year I did a bike tour. I’ve also been known to attempt a cartwheel, usually in an ill-conceived fit of whimsy. The last one ended with me plopped on my bottom, but never mind.

Clearly neither my tumbling nor my soccer skills will ever win me a place on an Olympic team. And there are granddads (plenty of them) who zoom past me whenever I ride my bike.

The point is no one know if I’d ever be able to do any of these activities again, and I can.

That’s worth a cartwheel.

Having survived cancer, I know everything else is gravy. The icing on the cake. The cherry on the – well, you get the idea.

Being alive is a miracle, and I developed a mantra to remind me of that fact.

“Happy to be here. Happy to have hair.” I say it whenever I start to stress over something stupid. Sure, it’s not the most sophisticated phrasing, and maybe I sound a little silly.

I say it anyway because I know I’m one of the lucky ones.

I’m still here.

“Happy to be here. Happy to have hair.” I say it in memory of those who are not.

Take a moment to think of them. And take some time to enjoy the life’s extras too – the gravy, the icing, and the cherry on that sundae.

I do. Especially the sundaes.

Cancer Lesson #64: Hair Today Revisited

Cancer Lesson #64: Hair Today Revisited

When my hair first started to grow again, I looked like a baby ostrich.  I couldn’t quite carry off the uber-chicness of extremely short hair,  so I kept my head covered for the most part, usually with my baseball cap (very un-chic).

My daughter would take off the hat and rub my head like it was Buddha’s belly. I put up with it because I love her.

By the time I went back to work, the weather was getting cooler, so I started wearing wigs. I was working in the children’s section of the library, and the kids’ reaction to my hair color was sometimes quite entertaining.

For my first storytime in seven years, I felt like I needed a little extra oomph. I wore Darling Daughter’s fluorescent pink wig and promised my small charges the next time they saw me my hair would be a different color.

To follow through on that pact, I bought a new wig from a place I call “the hooker store.” (Darling Daughter didn’t appreciate the humor, but if you saw it, you’d understand.)

“Ooooh! Your hair is violet,” said one little girl, exhibiting an astonishing vocabulary and knowledge of color for a five-year-old.

Another little one said, “I like your hair dye.”

Her mother was aghast.

“How do you know it’s dye?” she asked.

“Because her hair was a different color last time I saw her,” replied her unfazed daughter.

The Starbucks barista asked if my hair color was in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

It was, I suppose, albeit unintentionally.

Even when I wore my “normal” wig, people commented. Maybe the raspberry pink streaks made me more approachable.

My favorite was midnight black with electric blue tips, also Darling Daughter’s.

She wouldn’t give it to me, though, not even when I played the cancer card.

Kids.

 

Cancer Lesson #51: Wigs Are Hot

Cancer Lesson #51: Wigs are hot, and not always in a good way. (Although I will say my hairpiece with the raspberry-colored streaks was pretty damned fine).

Also, wigs make your scalp itch.

Baseball caps, on the other hand, are way cooler. They may even be “cool.”

I had chemo in the summer when the temperatures were hitting mid to high eighties most days. Frankly, I cared more about being cool than looking “cool.”

My Feminine Pink Ball CapMaybe I was delusional, but I kidded myself that my pink ball cap
added a certain femininity to my bald head.

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