Hair Today, Goon Tomorrow

Remember my hair? It was nice. When I was a kid, I watched that episode of the Brady Bunch in which Jan buys a big, brunette, permed bouffant-looking wig and thinks she's hot shit, and I was like, totally feeling what she was putting down. In those early years of childhood, I drew a lot of pictures of myself with wavy, black, "Snow White" hair and imagined saving my pennies to buy a wig like Jan did. However, as I got older, I began to appreciate the soft, auburn qualities of my natural hair, and realized its super-straightness was quite conducive to maintaining perfect bangs, which is a look I have embraced for basically my entire life.

As an adult, I have never taken my hair for granted. On several occasions during my morning meditative shout-outs to the Universe, I have made a point of expressing gratitude for my tresses (as well as my more ethereal fortunes--I'm not a completely shallow twat).

When that first oncologist prick told me I'd need chemo and my hair would fall out, I thought, "No, that's actually impossible. My hair would never betray me, I have shown it too much love." That didn't turn out to be entirely inaccurate. Although I shaved my head in order to avoid traumatic clumps from adorning my pillow, my hair hasn't fallen out much.  It's definitely thinner, but continues to grow, and my husband has to give my a buzz every few weeks, which is sort of precious. Despite my bygone wishes to have a raven coiffure, I now pray every day that my hair does not choose to grow back a different shade or texture when this is all said and done. This is apparently common with chemo. I think it sounds very rude. Haven't I been through enough?!

You might be thinking, "But Danielle, your plethora of wig fashions are just so fun!" To which I would reply, "Yes, true, thank God for wigs. But do you know how long it takes me to get ready in the morning? Wigs are a real pain in the ass and don't sit naturally on your head all day, which brings about a great deal of paranoia for someone who is an image-conscious type."

I might also add that my eyelashes and eyebrows have almost completely fallen out of my face, so drawing eyebrows and gluing falsies every day is a real enterprise. Then, when I take it all off at the end of the day, I feel like Matt Lucas and don't want anyone to look at me.

When I first went to have my hair shaved off, I had my hairdresser pony it up into little tails before he buzzed it, so I could send it in to be donated. It sat in a bag on my kitchen table for a few weeks, and every so often I'd open up the bag and hold the bundle up to the light and watch it shine in the sun.  I'd pet it like a cute baby animal. Sometimes I'd flop it over my forehead to remember what my bangs looked like.

I admit, I never sent the thing to donation. I keep it like a creepy souvenir. I check on it often in its little bag home. It's just such a comfort to me--an old friend. I've thought about making some art project with it, but for now I just like to keep it close at hand, in case of some anxiety-driven emergency. Cancer seriously makes you weird.

Weirder.

Weirdest.