Today at 10am, I will get my head shaved.
Chemotherapy-related hair loss begins 10-14 days after starting certain drugs (taxotere, in my case) and continues for several weeks until all is gone. It is often described as the most difficult part, emotionally, of cancer treatment. Hair is crucial to many women's self image, and hair loss is noticeable to others, a public manifestation of illness.
There seem to be two schools of thought about dealing with this indignity. Some women have their head shaved before most of their hair falls out. Others let it fall out naturally, even standing outside on a breezy day and letting their hair blow away. The second method is all very lovely and natural in theory, but I struggle with the thought of living for weeks with slow loss. I'm of the first school of thought: proactive, let's-get-this-over-with thinking.
For one thing, it's inevitable. Already last week, after the first round of chemotherapy, my scalp felt funny. It ached a little, and my hair felt too heavy. I'm glad, though, since this makes it more real. It was a first step in letting go.
All the same, even though I am choosing to lose my hair all at once, I struggle with the thought of getting my head shaved. It's an indignity. Head shaving is often a symbol of shame. Defeated armies and slaves have had their heads shaved. During World War II, Jewish prisoners had their heads shaved, ostensibly to prevent head lice but more as a form of humiliation. After World War II, thousands of European women who associated with German soldiers had their heads publicly shaved in front of cheering crowds to shame them. It reminds me of the scene that always made me cry in
The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Aslan, a lion and King of Narnia, has allowed himself to be captured and tied up by the White Witch as a ransom for Edmund's life. The Witch, finally having Aslan in her clutches, wants to humiliate him before she kills him.
"Stop!" said the Witch. "Let him first be shaved."
Another roar of mean laughter went up from her followers as an ogre with a pair of shears came forward and squatted down by Aslan's head. Snip-snip-snip went the shears and masses of curling gold began to fall to the ground. Then the ogre stood back and the children, watching from their hiding-place, could see the face of Aslan looking all small and different without its mane. The enemies also saw the difference. ... And they surged around poor Aslan, jeering at him...
As for me, I pray that I have the grace to cope with this one last indignity of breast cancer treatment. Even though I'm not a "hair person" who considers my hair an important part of my identity, this is hard.
I think of Proverbs 31, which describes many desirable traits for a woman. Verse 25: "She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come." That is what I desire physically and emotionally: strength and dignity and a sense of humor over the coming months.
Spiritually, I have described this whole cancer experience as a crash course in aging and mortality. I pray that I do not forget these lessons on the temporal nature of the body and that I focus on the eternal rather than getting distracted by the things the world considers important. Practically, this means minimizing exposure to fashion magazines, television, malls and anything else that might make me want the things women are supposed to desire. Fortunately, those aren't things I encounter daily.
Last night, I let the kids cut my hair (with the assistance of my dear husband who then tidied up their hacking). It's my way of making the head shave a little less dramatic, by first getting my hair short. In a few minutes, I leave for the head shave and, more uplifting, wig fitting and styling. I'll post pictures of me in my wig when I return.
