🎶Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair. 🎶

When Kasra was born a red head we racked our brains trying to figure out where in the heck our ginger baby came from until strangers started claiming “well you have reddish hair, he looks just like you.” It took a couple of years to accept it, but I finally realized I did have reddish hair, just like my baby. And it was beautiful. 

April 2018 with my red headed baby

Back in June, upon returning home from my open biopsy with my unofficial diagnosis still super fresh, I decided that if treatment was going to make me lose my hair, I would just take control and shave my head before I began chemo. When I booked this dreaded hair appointment I had a ridged vision. I would ask the stylist to cut my hair in to a pixie (for curiosity’s sake) and then immediately shave it all off. The doctors have said I will absolutely lose my hair, likely starting around day 14. I don’t want to deal with the traumatic experience of waking up to clumps of loose hairs on my pillow and a (even more than it already is) clogged shower drain. I have been rapidly losing my thick hair for years and thought this haircut would be a chance to be proactive and in control of a small aspect of my life. What I didn’t expect was to feel such an extreme mourning loss. I am now realizing just how attached I was to my hair. It’s just hair, right?? Saying goodbye to my frizzy locks is like saying goodbye to a friend I’ve known since childhood. My long brown (red?) hair was such a part of my identity and a crutch for comfort. Nervous? How about a casual twirl around my finger or better yet, I’ll just tuck those loose strands behind my ears. Both awkward Janene mannerisms. 

A few weeks ago on a drive, Kaveh rolled down all of the windows in the car and my first instinct was to be annoyed because duh AC, but then I felt my hair start to dance in the wind and was quickly reminded of how easy it is to take these small gifts for granted. What I wouldn’t do to be able to keep my hair. Or I guess a simpler wish would be to not have to go through any of this at all. I realize it’s hair and it will grow back and even when I don’t necessarily feel like it, I still have to ask myself, how is this good? The positive perspectives abound and remind me that it could always be worse. I won’t have to spend ANY time drying or brushing for the foreseeable future. Further, it likely won’t be my fault for making us late everywhere we go (ok, still probably my fault, but not due to trying to style my hair). I will save money taking a year off of cuts, products, etc. Kaveh won’t have to shutter at dinner because he’s found a long hair in his home cooked meal. We will be in the clear if there is a welcome back lice outbreak at preschool in the Fall. I won’t make the vacuum smell like burning rubber instantaneously upon turning it on. I will, albeit forced, live outside of my comfort zone and try new hairstyles beyond a trim. And for the first time ever, I will have to be comfortable in my own bare skin... still a work in progress. Each time I catch a glimpse of my reflection I feel so vulnerable and look for my security blanket to hide behind. The only time I truly feel like myself is when I’m fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my head. Will I be viewed as a bald walking beacon that screams 🚨—> sick lady <—🚨?? Maybe, but at least I’ll still be walking.

Last weekend, with the support of my friends and family, I shaved my unruly frizz dome. Fellow survivors have mentioned that the hair follicles actually ache as the cells are dying so I am happy to skip that. I still do get to have control in bits of my life and this is a good example.

Janene with the good hair. And bloodshot eyes.

This was when I asked my stylist if she had a vision or if she was just cutting aimlessly. 

My momentary pixie. Something so bold that I would never do otherwise!

My support crew. What I would do without them is a mystery.

Heather and Sherry at Urbaca Salon are phenomenal and made my lemon turned lemonade experience so special. Sherry handcrafts all of the facial products for the salon and created a safe line of skin care products based on her own family members experience with chemo. She generously gifted me with SO MUCH product to get me through the havoc stress and chemo will wreak on my skin. And Heather cut my hair with such sweet compassion, comped my service and gave me her personal number to connect for a tighter shave next week. THIS IS WHAT GETS ME EVERY TIME... big and small gestures alike give me so much hope that there is waaaay more good in this world than bad. I felt so celebrated and I cried A LOT that morning. 

The piles that brought sensory joy to the kids. It brought me some joy through the years too. 

Me, taking in my 2007 Britney moment. Someone get me an umbrella. 

The kids have been asking questions about cancer and joyously trying on my scarves and hats. The other day Kasra was in the middle of deep play when he paused and randomly said “mama, I’m going to miss your hair.” I fought back the tears and asked in a unsteady voice what he was going to miss about it. He replied “that it is brown.” Our kids have shown a strong ability to adapt to our new normal and their resiliency lifts me with pride. I wanted them to be present for the shave so they can have a basic understanding of why I won’t have hair anymore. I was a little worried they would be scared of me and of the whole experience in general, but instead they sat on the salon floor and played with the piles of my fallen hair, like typical children would. 

We use the words cancer and chemo and talk about why mama has so many doctor appointments. Kasra understands that chemo is the helping medicine that will rid my body of cancer but may make me feel tired, or barf, and will make my hair fall out, but it’s all okay because that’s showing us that the chemo is doing its job. A simple reminder for myself too. 

I came home from my first treatment to this wonderful gift drawn by Kasra (4.5 years old). It appears he overheard me talking about the red devil. 

Good friends shave their heads with you. Great friends buy you a wig, eyebrows stencils and bold lip color. 

Kaveh keeps hoping I grow a post chemo perm and apparently thats a real thing. I did notice the only other younger patient in the oncology waiting room had thick curly GREY new growth sprouting back on her head. So for now I will just say see you later, hair. I know you’ll come back soon and I can’t wait to see the bold changes we both return with. 

I made it all the way through the wig appointment without crying and upon leaving, the employee handed me these trinkets to take with me on treatment days. Dear stranger, you made my heart full of hope and love. 

Monday is a treatment day and I continue to feel blessed with so much of your support and kind thoughts.

I GOT THIS!

xoxo

j