Hair yesterday, gone today

The thing that one associates most with chemotherapy is the loss of locks. When the doc initially told me I had cancer, and that they were going to treat it with chemo, I was shocked, but of all the hundreds of questions I needed to ask, the one that got to my smacked gob the fastest was “Will I lose my hair?” My first tears from this situation came as she replied: “Oh yes”.

Since that day, I have been braced for baldness. I scoured the internet for information and evidence because I wanted to know for sure if I was destined to share hairstyles with Roger or not. (Uncertainty is one of the worst things in life. Something is in control and it ain’t you.) The general consensus was that with ABVD comes hair loss. Mostly a thinning, but sometimes a total boiled-egg look, with eyebrows and eyelashes to match. One or two have commented that I might be lucky and escape this side effect, as some people do, so I decided to hold out for as long as possible. No point in putting myself through the pain of getting it cut if it wasn’t going anywhere in the first place, right?

Yes, pain. I’ve often had nightmares where I’d had an inadvertent trim, only to wake up and touch my locks, relieved that we were still attached to each other. At times, it has seemed that the loss of my hair has been more upsetting than the actually illness. If you have waist-length, curly hair too, that you have spent the best part of a decade cultivating, you might understand that. So yes, I made a fuss.

The hair falls out because the stuff they stick into you is meant to kill off rapidly-growing cells i.e. the cancer. Unfortunately this includes some healthy cells in your bod, like blood cells (hence the low immune system); cells in the mouth (hence my sore gob) and cells in your hair follicles. Ahhhh! I had read that it is possible to wear a “cold cap” during treatment that restricts the flow of blood to the bonce, and thus the amount of Stuff that gets to it. I spent some time debating over whether or not to have one (I don’t think it would be very comfortable during an already vile process for starters). It was a decision I didn’t have to make – cold caps are not offered where I receive treatment.

Almost every morning since the first load of toxic chemicals sloshed around my veins, I’ve been going through the same routine: Brush hair, inspect hairbrush. Wash hair in shower, inspect shower drain. Dry hair, apply product, count hairs that come out. Everybody loses hair regularly, at about the same rate. Those of the close-cropped persuasion won’t notice, but when the individual strands are up to two feet in length, just the one coming out announces itself like a reality TV star launching their autobiography. Using the same simile, it gets EVERYWHERE and is just as annoying: over clothes (mine and other peoples’), car seats, cushions, and forming a mysterious web over carpets when I’m vacuuming, which always needs to be pulled off the pile and forced down the Dyson. Just a couple of strands and the shower floor fills with water until they’re removed from the metal strainer thing (installed to stop my hair going down the plughole and clogging it up in a tangled mass of fibrous protein and gunge. Blee!)

Anyhow, before all this Hodgkin hoo-ha, I was always dismayed at how much bonce-coverage came out on a daily basis, which is why I washed my hair every other day, and sometimes with all-in-one shampoo and no product. The point is, I knew the background levels to expect. That was all I got. In fact less than usual – almost as if my follicles were using their last ounces of strength to cling on with all their might. After two weeks, nothing had budged and I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I would be one of the chosen ones.

So we get to the Monday after my second chemo session, and thus the third week from the start of treatment, which (as a lot of the internet blurb declared) was when this side effect starts to rear its shiny head. I brushed and inspected – was that more than usual? I washed and noticed that I was able to pull the odd strand straight off my head. Everything I pulled out I stuck to the shower tiles. By the time I had applied my product, I had quite a cluster of hairs, and I went loopy. B-day was imminent and now a reality.

Part one of my plan was to wait until it started to fall and then get it cut. I had almost been willing this to happen, because I was getting tired of hanging around, and now here it was, in mousy and gold (with the odd fleck of grey) on my hairbrush – I was for the chop. When I finally calmed down, I treated my barnet as usual, but with the extra love that you do when you think you are doing something for the last time. I scraped it up into a ponytail for it to dry and curl, then shook it loose to dry off completely. I would see if it continued to come out, then book appointments accordingly. A doom-and-gloom Facebook status was posted, that no-one could like, followed by a miserable text to family and friends, and blubbing down the phone to Roger. Of course, it was a false alarm. Storm in an AA-cup.

T Shirt by http://theartofindigo.com/#/t-shirts/, photography by Rachel, stuped closed eyes by Lizzie

 

The week was a rollercoaster of energy and fatigue. I felt so incredibly well on Thursday, I could have done ANYTHING. I spent lunchtime on the web, looking for mountains that hadn’t yet been climbed, oceans that hadn’t been rowed across – I could do them all. I got tonnes of compiling done, and lots of fiddly jobs that I’d been postponing. I even got back into home cooking, and produced some beautifully healthy dishes, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since before I took up with the pantomime. Wonderful.

After that, there wasn’t much wind left for my Friday sails. Typically this was the day I had to go out, all the way to S’mead for my second pre-chemo assessment and blood extraction. Shower first, so I unplaited my braid and brushed. Woah – definitely more than the background. 

More on my brush than there is on Roger's head altogether!

 The same went for the shower, and it kept coming. When a veritable handful came out at once while I was applying my curl cream (for handful, read 3 strands), I knew it was poo or get off the pot time. After Monday’s drama, I was a lot calmer and more pragmatic. My ponytail done, I toddled off to Tesco, and noticed that my bunch was looking a bit scrawny anyway. Let’s face it, this day was going to come, cancer or not. When I got to the hospital, I had made the decision: I was going to – and this is no cheap innuendo – going to have it off.

Nearly 24 inches from root to tip, I'll have you know.

 The appointment was made for 6pm. I told them what they were to be doing and braced for, then brushed off, the all-too-familiar gust of sympathy that comes with my news. (Digression: It’s a tricky one. I want to be frank about things - that’s the best way forward in life - but I still wince a bit at the initial reactions. I don’t feel like I deserve sympathy, but on the few times when it has been scarce, I miss it!  There’s a brilliant male/female divide on this too. Ladies are wordy; chaps suddenly clam up even more tightly than usual. I’ll take whatever comes because as far as I’m concerned, we all deal with things in our own way.) After that, I knew I only had a few hours left of enjoying my hair, so I untied the ponytail and let it cascade around down my back for the last time. Of course, it looked extra pretty, didn’t it? It trickled and shone and whispered in husky tones “What’s all this about cutting me off? You know you want to keep me. Look what I do for you…” 

"Please don't cut me!"

 I decided that I would get that McDonald’s I had been promising myself, to pick me up. It was a massive calorie-laden anti climax, and I think I may have enjoyed eating the packaging slightly more than the burger. Except the onion rings, they were yummy. Don’t get me wrong – I love a McD’s, but my heart wasn’t in it. As I stood in line in a packed restaurant, the door was wedged open by several of the hundreds of students whose lunchtime it was, and my locks blew into my face in a really irritating way. When I was sitting in my car chowing down, I kept munching on fluffy hair. And when I examined my coat on returning home, it was coated in strands that had been on my head just a few hours earlier. Definitely the right decision

I tried to focus on this but it didn’t ease the pain of the impending barnet bereavement much. After a couple of hours of duvet time and a spot more blubbing, I arrived at the executioner’s, er, salon, clutching my camera, my wallet, and my lovely friend Rachel, who had driven all the way down from Stroud just to hold my hand. What she ended up holding was the camera, to document the denouement of this sorry tale. 

For old time’s sake I dragged a brush through once more, my earlier activities having left several knots that it took ages to attack. The hairbrush was really loaded when I finished which helped to remind me that this was For The Best. A bit of contortion to make my final braid, and I was ready. Kerri the Stylist took her scissors, and with a few snips my relationship with my favourite feature was over.

Going...

Going...

Gone! *sob*

I felt the weight of the hair go, and leave a cold spot on the back of my neck. As expected, I shed a few tears, from the shock and enormity of it all - not the cancer, but the enforced change of style. (My sense of perspective is delightfully askew today!) I asked to hold the plait in my hands like someone asks to hold their newborn. It was much heavier and longer than I’d thought it would be, but it was utterly dead, like I was holding my own corpse. It rested on the shelf in front of me as Kerri busied herself with tidying up, Rachel snapped away, and I tried to hold it together. Thanks to all the supportive texts and messages, the support right there in that salon, and one very special piece of information (keep reading), it was much easier than I’d ever thought it could be.

20 inches, weighing in at a mere 83g

What the stylist was creating was almost exactly what Thoroughly Modern Millie would be sporting for about nine tenths of the show. I rolled my eyes to the God of Irony and remembered a snippet of conversation between Wendy (DODS costumes) and me when I was first cast, back in blissfully unaware November:

“Lizzie, what are we going to do with your hair?”

“Well I shan’t be cutting it, that’s for sure”

*guffaws of laughter*

Tch.

Kerri was very kind and dried my shorn locks into some style that I wouldn’t have picked for myself EVER. I completely trusted her judgement, and I have to say it didn’t look half bad. A change is as good as a rest. Welcome to the 21^st century, Lizzie’s hair! Rachel then produced a gift of dangly earrings and my new look was complete. I left the salon with my lighter head held as high as I could manage, without giving my newly-exposed neck too much of a battle with the elements.

21st Century Girl

Roger is very taken by the new ‘do, and keeps giving me the fruity eye, so something else positive arises from this malarkey. For him, it’s probably like he’s got a new girlfriend, or at least an improved old one! 

 As for me, I had a troubled night. The number of times I rolled over and automatically went to lift my hair high onto the pillow so it wouldn’t be in Rog’s face…then realised there was nothing to lift. This morning’s shower was the hardest. I managed to remember to use less shampoo etc, but I still rinsed it for the same length of time, and it was very hard to squeeze the water out. I used to hold my tresses with both hands and wring them dry. I already miss that. Sure it took less than a quarter of the time, and I wasn’t entombed in soggy hanks as I stepped out, but on the downside it looks like I might need to attend to it with a hair dryer or straighteners, as it’s looking a bit moppy today. I keep running my hands through it in disbelief, especially the very back, which is only slightly longer than my bloke’s. 

No matter: Firstly, it might not be for long as it’s still falling out, though it’s harder to tell. Phase two of my plan involves electric clippers, a kitchen chair and The Rog getting his revenge. And secondly – if I even dare to start to feel sorry for myself, I just use the one over-riding thing that helped me find the strength to do this in the first place - knowing where my beautiful hair is going to end up.

If you find this blog brought a lump to your eye and a tear to your throat, you too can make a donation to The Little Princess Trust: http://www.littleprincesses.org.uk/Donate/Default.aspx - money rather than hair, unless you can spare more than 7 inches of it...