Ladies, you know what’s better than taking your bra off at the end of a long day? Taking your wig off the moment you walk through the door.
I’m just going to let that be a paragraph all on its own. I’m not sure what else to say about it because I know you’re feeling me, right? Instead, I’ll tell you a little story of hair loss. (Oh yes, get excited!) Actually, it’s a pretty short story. It goes like this. Chemo started making me lose my hair. It happened gradually but steadily until, one day, I decided to take a shower. I knew that I was losing a lot of my, at that point, very short hair when I had to clean the drain four times just to get water through. It wasn’t until I stepped out of the shower and saw my poor (loving, ridiculous, empathetic, mouth agaping, maybe should be working on his poker face–I’m not really sure what you want here) husband that I realized it was time. I foolishly looked into the mirror. Uhh yeah, it’s time.
“No big deal,” I said to myself. “I’ve known this day was coming for almost three months.”
So I casually texted my hairstylist aka Aunt Toni and set a time to shave it the next morning at her shop. “I got this.”
Except I didn’t got this.
I put on a hat, and I’m going to say that I was “pretty cranky” for a few hours until I called my aunt at 8 o’clock in tears asking her to come over asap, stat, right now! to shave it. Of course, she did. We even let Penny in on the action. I wish I could say it was to make it less traumatic for her, but the truth is that it was because she was awake, there, and thought it would be fun. (Please excuse the mess that is my house. Ain’t nobody got time to clean right now.)
There you have it. Until the next night, when my other cousin, Michelle (we have a talented hair family), came over and razored it because my head looked a little more like a globe with continents of hair, and I didn’t want Christopher Columbus discovering anything on my head. IDK, just go with it.
Things I’ve learned thus far about being bald:
It is a cold world out there, and I have to wear a hat at night.
Showers only really take three minutes.
It’s super fun to sneak up on your husband and pretend to be Gollum, precious!
People really do want to touch a bald head, but it feels just as awkward as it did when they rubbed my pregnant belly a year ago.
People really do look at you like you have cancer now. (<—which is blowing my mind because, theoretically, the cancer was removed with surgery. When I really did have cancer, I didn’t know it and looked just as healthy as the next guy.)
My husband reported that everything I say sounds/looks just a little meaner.
My kids don’t care one bit.
As hard as this is to go through with two very little girls, my daughters continually put things into perspective for me. They really, really didn’t and don’t care. I thought it would take some adjusting to, especially for Alice, but it just didn’t. She looked at my bald head for two seconds, and then locked into my eyes like she could see into my soul. That sounds super dramatic, I know, and my brother, Paul, is probably shaking his head at the screen right about now and my other brother, Josh, is totally feeling me. Still, I felt like no matter what, no matter where, no matter how, she and I were meant to be together. And she knew it. Penny too. She just doesn’t care.
On a lighter note, here are some things that I am playing around with. I’m not so sure about the scarves. They kind of scream “sick” to me (and apparently, I can’t even look at the camera in one). I think my favorite look is the pink wig, and I’m thinking about getting a blue or teal one. And I’m definitely on the hunt for some cute beanie caps. Also, so sorry for the awkwardness on display. I think I am just over the age limit for feeling comfortable taking a bajillion (or even four) selfies on the daily.