Chapter 4: Going Bald

I'm in the shower on Wednesday morning, two days before my fourth chemo treatment. I tug gently on my pubic hair, and clumps come away in my fingers. Now I'm afraid to shampoo my head--I have a couple of appointments that afternoon, and I'd like to have hair for them.

I stand there, wondering whether I dare get my head wet.

Then I realize that my period has started. It's probably the last period I will ever have--chemo makes you sterile and pushes you into early menopause. It's one of the things that really upset me when I learned about it. I had always hoped to have one more child.

I'm a mess. But I have to get out of the shower, I guess, so I wash my hair and comb it gingerly. I decide to skip the hair dryer. So far, so good: I still have a full head of hair. I decide a little hair gel won't hurt anything, and dab some on.

Somewhere in one of the books and pamphlets I have on breast cancer is the suggestion that women keep a plastic container in the shower to collect their hair as it starts to fall out. "Hair loss is upsetting," the book says--that's an understatement. How much money and time do women (and men, for that matter) spend on their hair? Shampoos, special treatments, hairdressers, perms, color, transplants for pattern baldness. We like hair.

I've worn my hair the same way for a dozen years, a chin-length bob with bangs. But I decided that it would be less upsetting to cut it off than to wait for it to fall out and go through a period with a clump here, a clump there.

So I went to SuperCuts the week before my chemo started and had my hair cut short. It's a nice cut, sharper looking than my usual style. Friends tell me I look younger.

The day of my third chemo, I came home and buzz-cut my hair to less than an inch. I needed bigger earrings with this short cut, I decided, and found some from Mexico made of brass and polished them up. They are broad little native faces, wearing bead earrings.

I would never have taken electric clippers to my own head six months ago. Cancer makes me bold.

Prepare to be Bald
I've been getting ready for the bald look for weeks: A friend who had cancer six years ago loaned me six or seven hats and dozens of scarves. She has a whole wall full of hats because her friends gave her a hat and scarf shower when she was going through chemo--a great idea.

I also visited a little shop called Hatterdashery in northeast Seattle. I dropped by, intending to buy one hat to wear for the holidays, and walked out with four. I gift-wrapped two of them and put them under the tree for myself for Christmas.

On Thanksgiving, I wore my brown velvet beret and a matching velvet sweater. I felt good. (So what if I fell asleep on the couch right after dinner?) The other hat, also velvet, has a roll-up brim and is a mixture of blue, green, and purple; the color changes from different angles. It's my favorite hat. I also have the gray fedora my grandfather wore in the 60s. That looks good, too.

I'm told, by my doctor and also by the guy who cut my hair, that hair grows back thicker and curlier after chemo. Well, that's nice, but my hair's always been straight. What if I don't like curly hair? Can I get my old hair back? On the other hand, my hair is pretty fine; thicker would be nice.

When my hair grows back, I want to dye it red. I tell my son Robin this, and he asks me to dye it the same shade of red as his. How sweet: mother-and-son hair color, just like those old Miss Clairol ads, with a gender twist. Maybe I'll do it.

A Strand at a Time
Eight days after my body hair began to fall out, the hair on my head starts to go. A gentle tug is all it takes, or no tug at all. It doesn't fall out in clumps, as I thought it would, but rather a strand at a time, like a dog shedding in spring.

My doctor says it will take a week or two for it all to fall out. This surprises me: I thought it would all go at once. He says it will start growing back as soon as the chemo stops, or possibly sooner. I don't know how this can be. The hair falls out because chemo kills fast-growing cells, including cancer cells and hair cells.

Early on, I had decided against a wig: I'd just wear hats, I thought. But now a wig looks good. I don't want people on the street--people I don't even know--to feel sorry for me.

The falling hair is really upsetting. I need to cry, but I can't. I can feel the tears, right there, but they won't come. I call a couple of friends, but no one is available to talk. Do I feel sorry for myself? You bet.

A few minutes later, a friend calls me back. We talk for a while, and I cry on the phone. I still don't feel better. This is really hard.

In the days that follow, hair clogs the drain in the shower, gums up the soap, and scatters across my pillow. I run my hand across my head, and a light shower of hair follows.

Is It Working?
At 6 a.m. on the Sunday after my third round of chemo, I lie awake. I don't feel sick like I did the last two Sundays, and I fantasize that I didn't get the chemo at all. But of course I watched it flow into my vein. Then I fantasize that it's not working, that's why I don't feel sick. I've got to call the doctor on this one, but not at 6 a.m.

When I finally do call a couple of days later and talk to one of my nurses, she laughs and reassures me. "Don't worry about that one," she says. "It's working."

So when I get treatment number four and it hits me harder than the others, it is somehow reassuring. I feel tired and sick from Friday night through about Tuesday. I don't know if it's an old wives' tale or not, but several people have told me that if my hair falls out it means the chemo is working. I guess I can be glad about that.

@ Jeanne Sather 2006