Bald as a Baby by Deb Petrone It all started with that pesky little lump in my breast I tried to ignore. Instead, I listened to that quiet little voice, the one that doesn't speak words but prods us to action, the one that is so hard to listen to because it is so soft and true and without fear. The issue of hair loss wasn't a consideration, ever. Actually if I had to choose no hair for the rest of my life or a split second with cancer, there would be no contest. Of course, I was not given that choice. Three weeks after my first chemotherapy treatment my scalp began to burn. Driving down the road with the window open I first noticed it. Five maybe eight full-length hairs just flew out the window. It was an omen. Within a day the great shed had began. My hair came out in multiple strands, then conspicuous clumps. My head looked like a diorama of the parting of the Red Sea in tones of pink and gold, but this was not a religious experience. I dug out a pair of old shears and managed to crop a sprightly little "do." My partner trimmed the back of my neck into a Romulan point. He cut it above the occipital joint--the place where the skull meets the neck--which I believe in hairdresser's terms means 'the point of no return.' All was forgiven though because the fate of my hair was cast. With an ever-supportive, proactive spirit and always poised for a good joke, my guy shaved his that day. Duly inspired, I woke up the next morning and, poised before the bathroom mirror, I took a razor to my head to finish the job. Being "folliclely challenged" had its pitfalls. Going out in public took some getting used to. As the only species on the planet cursed with intellectual judgment--or so we tell ourselves--people are want to draw some sort of conclusion about things they don't see everyday. The hardest for me to discern was how my lack of hair had any relevance to anyone's life. This naive girl from Ohio was getting a crash course in aberrant human behavior, my own included. Most reactions were blatant stares. I could deal with that on a good day. But the anger, looks of horror and outright revulsion--that wore thin quickly. Aside from the nausea that has made it famous, the assault of chemotherapy took down my ovaries and threw me into an intermittent menopausal state. Estrogen loss is nasty business. If I wasn't crying or in a state of panic, I was just downright gnarly. I was already a victim of my emotions and anyone's judgement of my appearance heaped insult upon injury. I wanted to stand up and scream, "I'm not a skin-head, a rebel, a lesbian or a loose woman! And what if I am?" What if I was? Reactions to my bare head were a daily event and virtually inescapable. I had to deal with a curt, "hey boy" from my neighbor and "may I help you, sir?" from store clerks. It was clear that being a "survivor" was not strictly a pink ribbon issue. I was a surviving an imposed fashion statement. Not that I never pondered becoming bald before. I had. During my Buddhist nun phase I gave it serious thought. Then there were those days I secretly aspired to be Joan of Arc or a Sci-Fi queen. But as with so much in our lives that occurs by happenstance, I was just not prepared. I was never a fan of makeup but it did become my last resort in maintaining my girlish looks. My morning ritual consisted of curling my eyelashes, applying a lovely rich mascara and some cheeky color. I began to enjoy the baldness and entertained thoughts of keeping the look. Unfortunately my eyebrows and lashes didn't hold up well and began washing off. I was losing my features and makeup began to look increasingly artificial. As adamant as I was against the obvious wigged look, I certainly was not going to pencil myself to look like a cheap Modigliani. I opted for stark chic. The bald blight spread to other parts of my body and in time the carpet finally did match the curtains. I felt unusually youthful having no pubic hair and took great joy in not giving a moment's thought to my legs or armpits. As my sister said, I was as bald as a baby. The months I spent with a shiny bare dome were not without their rewards. Friends commented on the beauty of my head. My lover found it to be quite sexy (and I his). People came up to me and wanted to touch it. I felt like the genie of the lamp. Our plumber asked to kiss it. Former cult members, hip chicks and other former chemo patients would stop to chat with a story to tell. There were others that admired my courage and longed for the chutzpah to bare their bald beauty. Teens and kids all smiled. Bald young men would coolly acknowledge me and nod. The littlest ones were fascinated and often gaped at me with recognition, so much so that I was convinced there was a character on Sesame Street with no hair. My favorite was little Bill, our friend's grandson. Bill was not ashamed to stare. "Are you a boy or a girl?" he asked with the innocence only a four-year-old could pull off. Instantly my heart warmed to his genuine curiosity. "Why, I'm a girl," I replied and went onto explain that there was a special doctor's medicine that causes such things to happen. I answered "why?" until he seemed to tire of the word, then he asked to touch my head and ran off. He returned with a sheet of stickers. "You hafta press hard," he explained and demonstrated as I sat patiently. I went home that night with stars on my head. I felt like a fairy or an angel. As I lay my head on the pillow that night I felt deeply blessed by the acceptance and purity of a child. I hear that when you shave or lose your hair, it never grows back the same. So it was that my once wispy fine hair came in coarser and wavier, and a sorry mix of gray and brown. Not sure what to make of it, I decided to go for platinum blonde. The clerk at the beauty supply house warned me that I might ruin my hair if I wasn't careful. With great courage I pressed forward, familiar with the worst that could happen. Today, on a good hair day, I resemble a white-haired Betty Boop and I am pleased. The surgery, chemo and radiation took its toll and, like my hair, I don't believe I will ever be the same. My body has changed and so has my point of view. "Life breaks us all," I have heard, "and sometimes we emerge stronger at the broken places." It's hard to determine the strength of a breast but it is safe to say that mine is not any worse for wear, nor is my hair. What has emerged stronger is my spirit. Through forced humility I understood not to be so quick to judge myself or others. Facing death I learned that my priorities are a matter of the heart. Life is as fragile as a single hair on my head. It can endure harsh assaults and the test of time but without a moment's notice it can fall away and be gone forever. So today, I will touch it, style it, and honor it while it is here. |
