Hair Today, None Tomorrow

 

Hair today...none tomorrow 

It is commonly known that chemotherapy for breast cancer causes hair loss. The shock of a bald head, particularly on a woman, is used across all sorts of cancer campaigns and stories because it is such a strong image.  I feared becoming that image - of being the identification of a cancer patient. Of not looking 'normal'. Of not being me anymore. 

    There are ways to try and prevent hair loss, but if you are having a 6-month long chemo course for BC the chances are it will be difficult to retain. So I opted to just go for it and not try and prolong the agony. As has been my way through this process, my focus was on preparing for it - seeking advice, attending workshops (run by two amazing charities Cancer Hair Care and Look Good Feel Better) and buying up products - chemo lashes, hair pieces, hats, brow pencils, head oils etc etc. I also did the customary pre-chemo cut, twice, to make the losing process a bit less dramatic. But it was still dramatic. One day you run your fingers through your hair and it is literally coming out in clumps in your hand. My pillow was covered. As soon as I got to that stage I asked my husband to shave my hair down to a number 2 all over. And there it was.....gone. 

    But here lies the real shock for me. It wasn't actually that bad! I had really loved my first pre-chemo cut and had loads of positive responses to it. And then I actually quite enjoyed my 'Sinead O'connor' look as most called it. There is something weirdly freeing about being able to shave your hair off without looking like you are having some sort of breakdown. The children really helped too.  I was expecting them to be embarrassed of me. But it was just unblinking acceptance from all of them, as if it was normal. That is what my  husband Ben gave me as well - complete normality. I had genuine concerns about him recoiling in horror at me. But it was just...normal. And that is all I needed. 

    Of course, hair doesn't grow (or fall out) uniformally. So the short shave was fine, but as more and more went you end up with this patchy baldness which is less palatable. So then came the onslaught of hats. 

    I am definitely not a hat person. So adjusting to having to wear something most of the time has been hard. Luckily it is winter so the weather has helped. There is a whole world of headgear for chemotherapy patients, and I purchased many different types of hats and turbans and scarves. But I have ended up using only a very few - a trusty bobble hat for my outdoor walking and a couple of turbany things for indoor wear. And most of the time inside I actually prefer to just be bald. 

    I do own one NHS paid-for wig, which I have developed a love-hate relationship with. The first time wearing that out in public felt utterly mortifying - I was so self-conscious and the wig felt massive on my head. Once I got more used to being in hats, it actually became easier to wear the wig. My friend Emily advised to just consider it as a hairy hat and that helped. I haven't worn it much though as it still feels quite alien and I am outside in the Norfolk wind a lot, but serves a purpose on occasion. 

    I've been lucky so far in that I have retained my eyebrows and most of my lashes. They may still go but I am a good three quarters through treatment and they are hanging on in there. I think if they go / had gone this period of my life would have been much harder. I remember lots of people telling me that losing the brows and lashes was more traumatic than losing head hair and I can completely understand that. 

    I wanted to use this whole experience to learn about myself and about what is important. I have learnt that hair doesn't matter so much. What matters is having friends and family who love you for who you are and not what you look like. It sounds simple really, but until something happens that changes how you look in a dramatic fashion you don't experience it. I am still me! (cue 'This is Me' from the Greatest Showman!) 

'I'm not scared to be seen

I make no apologies, this is me'

Lizzie Wright, BRiC member