My hair started falling out about three weeks into treatment. I expected clumps (for the doctors, websites, and survivors said, "expect clumps"), and I imagined my hair falling out in neatly packaged bundles, like hair extensions. I also expected bald spots (for the doctors, websites, and survivors said, "expect bald spots"), and I imagined that as my hair fell out in its tidy little clumps that it would leave behind polka dots of bald spots on my head. Instead of clumps and bald spots, though, I got thin gold ribbons.
Every time I ran my fingers through my hair—which was often—I'd collect a handful of loose strands. They would wrap around my fingers, soft and shiny. In the moment, the hair loss almost seemed normal, perhaps even beautiful, but the silky layer of loose hair underneath my bed and on my pillow reminded me that there was nothing normal about those pretty gold ribbons.
I never went bald, so when my aunt sent me a care package with six cute hats to keep my head warm in the wintertime, the proper "thank-yous" were said and the hats were regifted to another lady in town who was also sick. I kept only one: a beige baseball cap with the words "bad hair day" boldly stitched across the front. (The irony was too good to pass up.)
As though I were a forty-year-old man instead of a teenage girl, my hair simply thinned. My hair was blessedly thick, so the hair loss was blessedly even. You could hardly tell that I was losing hair unless you watched me as I let gold ribbons fall from my fingers. If you looked closely, you might see the hair loss on my face as raised my patchy eyebrows or blinked away stray eyelashes. But really, you wouldn't know that I was sick unless you saw my stash of medicine in the kitchen cabinet or the ghostly pallor of my face.
In January, the clumps and bald spots finally came. Not from the chemotherapy, but from Carter, my sweet little brother who didn't understand what cancer was. When he locked his fingers around my hair—an involuntary response to over-stimulation—I fell to the ground, hand clasped over his, desperately trying to save what hair I could. As tears streamed down my face, as my mom and dad leapt to their feet and wrenched Carter's innocent little fingers from their death grip on my hair, I pressed my hand to my scalp, holding the loose strands in place until I could stumble up the stairs to the bathroom.
When the door closed, I let go. And seemingly endless gold ribbons slipped from my fingers, falling like beautiful autumn leaves into the bathroom trashcan.
Every time I ran my fingers through my hair—which was often—I'd collect a handful of loose strands. They would wrap around my fingers, soft and shiny. In the moment, the hair loss almost seemed normal, perhaps even beautiful, but the silky layer of loose hair underneath my bed and on my pillow reminded me that there was nothing normal about those pretty gold ribbons.
I never went bald, so when my aunt sent me a care package with six cute hats to keep my head warm in the wintertime, the proper "thank-yous" were said and the hats were regifted to another lady in town who was also sick. I kept only one: a beige baseball cap with the words "bad hair day" boldly stitched across the front. (The irony was too good to pass up.)
As though I were a forty-year-old man instead of a teenage girl, my hair simply thinned. My hair was blessedly thick, so the hair loss was blessedly even. You could hardly tell that I was losing hair unless you watched me as I let gold ribbons fall from my fingers. If you looked closely, you might see the hair loss on my face as raised my patchy eyebrows or blinked away stray eyelashes. But really, you wouldn't know that I was sick unless you saw my stash of medicine in the kitchen cabinet or the ghostly pallor of my face.
In January, the clumps and bald spots finally came. Not from the chemotherapy, but from Carter, my sweet little brother who didn't understand what cancer was. When he locked his fingers around my hair—an involuntary response to over-stimulation—I fell to the ground, hand clasped over his, desperately trying to save what hair I could. As tears streamed down my face, as my mom and dad leapt to their feet and wrenched Carter's innocent little fingers from their death grip on my hair, I pressed my hand to my scalp, holding the loose strands in place until I could stumble up the stairs to the bathroom.
When the door closed, I let go. And seemingly endless gold ribbons slipped from my fingers, falling like beautiful autumn leaves into the bathroom trashcan.