"You're going to lose your hair."
It's difficult to take. My hair is one of the only physical attributes I like. If I cut it too short, I cry. My breath gets shaky when I assess my options. I ponder wigs close to my natural color and texture. I think about radical purples and neon pinks. How will synthetic fibers behave in high winds? I imagine a gust absconding with my temporary hairdo and giving it to a tree out of spite.
"It doesn't start falling out until shortly after dose two."
My hair thins out for a few days after my second dose, but then it holds steady. I'm relieved by the temporary stop. Maybe I won't go completely bald. It doesn't have to happen to everyone, right?
"Are you sure you don't want hair?"
Gayle bustles around the room, gathering hats and scarves for me before I go to my third chemotherapy treatment. Everything is free, but I feel guilty taking it. The disposeable cap on my head simulates baldness as I stare at myself in an oval mirror. My husband compliments me with each thing I try on. I leave with a pink gift bag full of things to hide one of chemo's more telling presents.
"Some people just buzz it all off."
My hair almost entirely abandons me after dose three. I chop off the length to keep it from tangling as it evacuates onto my pillows and clothes. I now have bare spots and downy wisps like a baby bird. My scalp is sensitive and hurts for no reason, and I want to shave my head but decide against it. I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror until I don't care about what frames my fat cheeks and quadruple chin.
"No one will be fooled by a wig when I don't even have eyelashes," I tell my mom.
Eventually, every hair on my body is going to go. There will be no "hiding" what is happening to me. I'm not artistic enough to draw convincing eyebrows. I go outside in my turquoise hat for the first time, and I don't lament my missing locks... I rejoice that I'm still here.
