Chapter 9: The Hair Thing

For my whole life, my hair has been the bane of my existence. It didn't matter what style, what color, I have hated my hair ever since I can remember. When I was very little, my hair was light blond, wavy, and shoulder length. My mom used to put those pink rollers in my hair at night, usually before school pictures or some event.

I got a Dorothy Hamill cut when I was about 8 years old - mom's idea, not mine. By then, it was turning a light brown. I cried when my mom took me to get that haircut because I didn't want short hair.

Fast-forward to freshman year in high school and my first perm. It was the '80s and big hair was in. I brought a picture of Stevie Nicks because I liked the style. Needless to say, my hair came out nothing like hers, but I loved it just the same. The only downside was the stink and not being able to wash my hair for a few days. My hair was down past my shoulders, curly, and layered on top with bangs to get the big-hair effect with lots of hairspray.

I kept that style through the first couple of years of high school and grew to hate it. When I reached junior year, I decided to be drastic and cut it all off into a short bi-level cut, another '80s style. I loved that look for about a month. Then I was back to hating my hair. I loved the simplicity and look of short hair but thought I would never find a guy unless I had long hair. Why? Because guys like girls with long hair and big boobs. Guess what? I didn't have those.

During high school and college, whenever I had the big hair look, my father would never miss the chance to make fun of it, saying it looked as though I stuck my finger in a light socket. I tried to suck it up and pretend that it didn't bother me, but, of course, it did. Even my grandmother, whom I loved dearly, would pick the worst bad-hair day to ask, "What did you do to your hair, dear?"

I hated my hair and my looks. I thought my body was ugly, but at least I could hide it. Not my hair. The cycle of growing and cutting, crying and hating went on for years. I added coloring to the mix when perming was going out of style. I began highlighting my hair in my late 20s and soon became caught up in that expensive cycle. The more I did it, the lighter my hair became and I couldn't keep up with the roots. I hated my hair as a brunette and I hated it even more as a blonde. Every day became a bad-hair day.

About a year before my cancer diagnosis, I finally stepped off the rollercoaster ride with my hair and started to like it a bit more. I had grown out the latest short haircut and wore it just below my shoulders. I'm sure I had it long because I thought I needed long hair to find a man. I needed all the help I could get, I told myself.

After my night out at the club, the shedding became even more intense along with scalp pain, which no one had mentioned would occur. I became very good at styling hair that was hanging on by a thread.

Chris and I arranged another date after our Central Park outing, but I still hadn't told him about the cancer. I was hoping that when he looked at my hair, he would just think I got a haircut and a really bad one at that. I invited Jenn over after work that day to show her the expensive wig I got. I wanted her honest opinion. Well, not really. I needed some moral support because I thought the wig was really bad and I was nervous about my date with Chris that evening. It was date number three. I knew I had to tell him about the cancer and I hoped I wouldn't be trampled when he took off running.

I was in the bathroom trying to make some kind of hairdo with the chop haircut when Jenn arrived. She noticed how upset I was. She said I looked great. I told her she was nuts, but thanks anyway.

"I want you to tell me honestly what you think of this wig," I said to her.

"Of course, I will. Don't worry; I am sure it's fine," she said with a smile. I got the wig out of the closet, but couldn't bear to put it on so I just showed it to her. She told me the wig was nice and closely matched the color of my hair. I thought it made me look old and screamed "WIG." Jenn tried to reassure me, but it was easy for her to say. She wasn't the one who was going to be bald in a few days. She stayed for a little while and helped me get ready for my date. I told her I was afraid of what Chris would say about my hair. She kept trying to tell me everything would be okay.

I put on my favorite white blouse and my black pants, the only outfit I thought looked good on me now. Jenn needed to leave and I had to get dolled up for my date. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I wondered if tonight was the night my hair would release - a fancy term for going bald. No matter how I thought I looked now, it was going to get worse.

Chris and I had so much fun together; it would probably come to an end that night. There were beautiful women all over Manhattan. My whole life I had struggled with feeling second best, never good enough, never one of the popular, pretty ones. Now I was really in a bind. How could I compete?

It was getting late. I had a forty-five-minute drive into Manhattan. I looked in the mirror for the last time and realized there was nothing more I could do. At least we hadn't known each other long. It wouldn't be that big a deal to lose him. Another lie. I was getting good at this. I took one last glance at my hair in the rear-view mirror as I approached the parking garage. I brushed some hair off my shirt and was glad it wasn't a windy evening.

It was one of those Indian summer nights in October, making you forget that winter was just around the corner. As I walked up the hill to his apartment building, my stomach began to churn. I was getting nervous. I opened the door, rang the bell, and was quickly buzzed in. Lots of steps to climb up to the third floor and my abdominal muscles let me know I was only eight weeks postsurgery. I was pretty much out of breath when I reached the top of the stairs.

Although I had prepared myself for the probability that this would be our last evening together, I was still looking forward to seeing Chris. He was waiting there for me outside his apartment door and greeted me with a smile and a hug. I cringed as I waited for him to notice my haircut or, rather, the big fallout. To my surprise, he didn't even notice. Isn't that just like a guy? The last time he had seen me, my hair was down past my shoulders and now it was above my ears. I didn't know if I should feel relieved or insulted. I thought about it for a second and decided to consider myself lucky there was no mention of my hair. There would be enough talk about that later.

We decided on Italian. My favorite kind of food, but since the chemo I was very careful what I ate. The Upper East Side has a lot of wonderful sidewalk cafés, but the downside is the one-stall bathrooms. Chris knew a nice Italian place down on 82nd Street, with a sidewalk café. It was only ten blocks away. As I tucked my hair behind my ear, I could feel some between my fingers. I tried to shake it off nonchalantly and rub my hand on my jacket. I was wondering what Chris was thinking, with this being the third date. I was not a "sex-on-the-third-date" kind of girl. Of course, I didn't need to worry about that. The news flash I was saving for the end of the night would put a screeching halt to any thought of sex.

We didn't have to wait long for a table. I was hungry but afraid to eat. Chris told me I looked nice. He ordered a beer for himself and a soda for me. I was on too many meds to have alcohol. If I had been a big drinker, one would have come in handy. I was really trying to live in the moment, something I had been working on to try to deal with the fear of dying. I took in the air, the breeze, the moon, the lights, and the passersby. Chris and I always had good conversations. We had a lot of things in common and could make each other laugh.

It was easy, I thought. Too bad it has to end so soon.

We ordered tiramisu for dessert and shared one. So far, so good with my stomach. No bathroom situation yet. Chris paid for dinner and we took a walk. There are so many places to walk in Manhattan, so many interesting people to see. You know the old saying... the city that never sleeps. How could you ever feel alone here?

We took a long walk under the stars and then headed back to his place. He took out his guitar and played a little for me. I told Chris I wrote poetry and he asked me whether I could remember a poem off the top of my head. He asked me to write it down for him so he could put it to music. I took the pen, excited at the prospect of hearing my words set to music. As I wrote down the words, I recited it to him, watching his face as he listened.

And just like that, I watched his fingers strum the guitar as he sang my words. It was like a dream coming true. He had brought my words to life in a different way. I couldn't help wondering— Was this moment happening to fulfill a wish of mine because I was going to die? Damn it, there was cancer in my face again. After Chris finished, I was teary and he asked me what was wrong. I told him I was just overwhelmed with hearing my words put to music, which wasn't a total lie.

We talked, he played the guitar, sang a little, and before we knew it, a couple of hours had gone by. I started to get nervous. I needed to tell him. His apartment was a very small studio, one big room with his bed next to the window. You could see it from the couch. He called me over from the couch to lie next to him on the bed. There was a nice view of the city from the window, but I got the feeling that was not why he beckoned me. I walked over and sat down on the bed. As he reached his hand up to touch my hair, I gently redirected it to my face and he leaned in and kissed me. I felt so sad and then so scared. How was I going to tell him what I had been keeping from him since we met? But I had put it off long enough. Way to ruin a moment.

"I have something I need to tell you," I said.
With a serious look, he responded, "What is it? Are you married?"
I chuckled a little as I said, "I wish it were something as simple as that."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"There is really no easy way to say this."
"Say what?" he demanded.
Then the words just flew out of my mouth: "I have breast cancer."

With that, there was silence for what seemed like an eternity. He looked blankly at me, trying to absorb what I had just said. I quickly filled in the blanks for him and rambled on about my surgery, the mastectomy reconstruction, and the chemo treatments I had just started. That led up to the hair-loss thing.

"Oh, my God! I am so sorry," he said.

In that moment, the way he looked at me changed. Where do we go from here, I thought.

I told him that the day we went to Central Park I looked tired from all the walking we did because of my surgery. I had been trying to be strong so I could put off telling him for as long as possible. I told him that I didn't want it to scare him away. I was sure I was saying all the wrong things. Now I know there was no right or wrong way to explain this mess. He asked me if I was scared and I said of course I was. I didn't want to die. Mention the word "die" and it's too heavy for someone who had been out with me only three times. Of course, he denied that my news scared him. I told him he was a good liar.

It was really late by this point and the thought of a long drive back up to Rockland was very unappealing. He offered to let me spend the night on his couch. I was too tired to drive back over the bridge so I thanked him for letting me stay. The conversation had become strained since the "C" talk, which was no surprise. My next move I didn't see coming: I asked him if I could lie next to him to sleep. He said, "Of course you can." I pre-apologized for the hair I might leave on his pillow and hoped that I would have some left in the morning. He put his arm around me and we fell asleep.

Maybe I wanted to sleep next to him to feel wanted, to feel close to a man, to feel I fit in somewhere. Maybe I just wanted to escape the reality of what was happening to me.

I woke up to bright sun coming in the window. Chris was already up. When I sat up, I noticed a ton of hair on his pillow and was so embarrassed I didn't know what to do. My scalp was really hurting. It felt as though I was leaving little bits of myself all over the place; today, it was his apartment. I apologized for the hair and he told me not to worry about it. The weird look on his face was a combination of pity and terror, I think. I imagined he was asking himself how he could have met the only young woman on the Internet with cancer.

I gathered my things and told him I needed to get going. Part of me didn't want to leave because I knew this was the last time I would see him. When we headed toward the door for our good-bye, I could see it coming a mile away. I could have written the dialogue. He walked over to me, took my hand, and told me that he really liked me, but he didn't think he could handle this. "This," of course, being cancer. I told him I understood, blah, blah, blah... as if I had already rehearsed it in my head. Part of me actually was angry at him for bowing out, though.

I almost missed the exit for the bridge. My mind was all screwed up. To top it off, I was resting my head in my hand, leaning my elbow on the car door, when I realized I had a whole handful of hair in my hand.

When I got back to my apartment and got out of the car, the shedding was out of control. I was going to have to vacuum the damn car. I had gone through quite a few sticky rollers on my clothes, pillows, and furniture in the past couple of weeks. Once I lost my eyelashes and eyebrows, I would look really attractive. I ran straight to the bathroom. When I pulled down my underpants, I wondered why there was hair all over the inside. I hadn't been told about that hair loss. Wow, I was getting a free Brazilian. Maybe I wouldn't have to shave my legs again for a while either.

I needed to take a shower. What was left of my hair really needed to be washed, but I was afraid it would all come out. I ran the shower until the water was steamy hot. I stepped in and backed up so the water could run over my tense shoulders. I looked down at my fake boob without a nipple and the scar across my belly that stretched from one hip to the other. How did my life ever come to this?

I was tired of waiting for the inevitable horror; I needed to take some control. I put my head under the water, knowing what would happen, and tugged gently on my hair. Sure enough, I pulled it right out in clumps. I didn't know what to do with the hair so I placed it neatly on the side of the tub. My sarcasm kicked in and I laughed, saying out loud to myself, "Wow, I am literally pulling my hair out!" When I was finally done, all I had was some peach fuzz on my head and a neat pile of hair in the corner of the tub.

I didn't want to get out of the shower because I didn't want to confront the mirror. I knew that losing my hair was going to be even harder than losing my boob because now everything was going to be obvious to the outside world. Finally, I stepped out and grabbed a towel. When I saw myself, it was like looking at another person. It was like I was stripped to the core somehow. Stripped of all the things that made me feel like a girl, the things that made me feel sexy.