Chapter Five: Curly Hair at Fifty-two

Chapter Five: Curly Hair at Fifty-two

            "Three weeks after your first chemotherapy treatment," my oncologist mentioned on the tail end of two hours of counsel and instruction, "your hair will fall out. I suggest you buy a wig before that first chemo. You might not feel good enough afterwards." So the week before toxins were first injected into my blood stream, I shopped for wigs, which turned out to be a difficult task.

            It was hard for several reasons. First, I was less than a month in my recovery from three surgeries—the excision, the mastectomy, and the reconstruction. Second, I had received too much advice. My fun-loving, slightly crazy friends suggested I "go for something radical and buy a red and a blond wig. Make this a fun experience." My more traditional friends cautioned me to "buy the wig most like my natural hair so I'd feel like me.” Others told me that wearing a wig was phony. "Just go bald," they advised. "You'll be a fashion statement." Others saw me as a walking billboard. They, too, suggested I go bald because they saw my baldness as a way to advertise the horrors of breast cancer, saying "Every woman who sees you will be more likely to go right out and get a mammogram."  Others told me wigs were hot and uncomfortable. "Just buy some cute hats," they suggested. I was learning. Mention the words chemotherapy, tumor, malignant, or cancer, and everyone shares a strong opinion. I couldn't possibly please them all—so I pleased myself.

            In truth, though, I knew I couldn't please myself by displeasing those I love and live with. I tried to put myself in their shoes by asking myself, "If my mom was going to lose her hair, what could she do to make it easier on me." I asked myself the same question trying to put myself in the shoes of my fourteen year-old son, my seventeen-year-old son, my twenty-one year old daughter, and my fifty-six year old husband. I thought of the effect on my married children, their spouses, my parents, and my oldest grandchildren who were eight, five, and three. I asked everyone I could find who had been closely associated with cancer how they felt about the hair issue. Some comments were:

            "My sister had chemo last year. She lost most but not all of her hair. She had straggly clumps here and there and made no attempt to look nice. It was hard on my two sisters and me to look at her and people stared when we went places together. Our mom was especially distressed over her lack of grooming."

            "When I had radiation I was hoping to go bald. I wanted the experience. I think bald women look very chic."

            "My mom had cancer when I was sixteen. It was hard for me to adjust to her being bald. I hate to admit it, but I stopped bringing friends home. I know it hurt her, but I was sixteen and didn't have enough maturity to do any better."

            I called the American Cancer Society and asked what they recommended. They offered me a video, "Look Good Feel Better." I watched it several times. Their philosophy is "the better you look, the better you feel." They gave me not only the video but also a wig and a turban. 

            When no one was home except family, I went bald, but I always kept a hat close by in case the doorbell rang. After school, when I knew the boys were likely to bring a friend home, I'd wear a hat. I wore a hat to the mall, post office, grocery store, and restaurant. Actually, I got compliments! People said I looked quite fashionable. I wore the wig when we went out in the evenings and to church. You may be wondering why I didn’t just wear the wig all the time. Well, wigs, at least my wig, was uncomfortable and hot.

            The wig-shopping day was successful but by the time I got home, I was physically drained. Just as I lay down on the couch, the doorbell rang. It was a dear friend. She visited for a few minutes and gave me a small wrapped package. I opened it and tried hard to conceal my smiling thoughts. It was a small book of thoughts titled, Thoughts for a Bad Hair Day.

My Truly All Time Worst Bad Hair Day

            My hair had always been what I considered one of my best features. It was a light brown color with many natural blond streaks. It was thick. I wore it slightly turned under all the way around about shoulder-length. Although I had gone through the steps of purchasing a wig and hats, I honestly believed I would be the exception. My hair was too good; there was too much of it. It wouldn't fall out. Even if I lost half of it, I'd still look fine. The days after that first chemo passed, and I noticed little change in my hair. On the morning of the two-week anniversary of the chemo when I washed my hair, it felt different—very dry and bristly. I used a conditioner to restore some oil to it. But each day as I'd wash and comb it, there would be more hair in the drain and more on left in the comb or brush. I could no longer hide the truth. I had a receding hairline.  The first bald places were just like how a man loses his hair on the sides and top. I still wouldn't believe.

            I wanted to keep my hair long enough to fly to California on the three-week anniversary of the first chemo treatment to see my oldest son give his doctoral dissertation. I wanted to look nice. I thought I could save my hair by not combing or washing it for the three days before leaving.

            The morning we were to leave I got up and looked on my pillow. There was some hair but no more than I had become accustomed to. I was confident my plan was working. I had an hour before we had to be at the airport. Richard, John, and I were going. I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I let the water run over my hair and put the shampoo on top—just like always. I tried to lather my hair. But the shampoo stayed in one place. The hair had matted into one mass. I said out loud, "It's dead. It's all dead." It was like a nest. I stood quietly in the shower comprehending what this meant. All my hair was dead.

            I tried to wash out the shampoo, but everywhere I touched handfuls of hair came out. It was not like the other days when seemingly healthy hair had fallen out. This was bristly, sickly, staticy, lifeless hair. I had a few bangs and fringes. I put on a baseball hat that thankfully covered all the bald spots. Happily this allowed me to do what I had to do without feeling self-conscious. We landed back in Salt Lake City the next morning and went directly to my hairdresser who took me to a private room and shaved my head. Somehow having it all gone was psychologically a much happier place.

            Several months later, I was listening to a radio program about cancer. A woman was telling of her mastectomy and chemotherapy. She said, "But losing my breast was not nearly as hard as losing my hair." “Perhaps,” I thought, “but hair grows back.”

Thousands of Sores

            For me, having my hair fall out was also a physically painful process. It seemed that each hair follicle had to burn out. Whenever I'd lie on it, try to comb it, or even have a little breeze on my head, my head would hurt. I have never had any pain like this pain. Follicle by follicle the process seemed to be that it would hurt, like sleeping on your hair wrong; then it would burn; then it would fall out. But there was another step I could not have foreseen. At almost every pore, a small, some not so small, boil would appear. At the worst of it there must have been a thousand sores, and did they hurt! I showed Dr. Prystas. "It's a rare complication of the chemo. It will get better in time. There is nothing you can do to make it better." Happily, they healed in about three weeks.

            I was assured that 99% of chemo patients have their hair come back. The American Cancer Society video showed women in various stages of new growth on their heads. Most of the women they interviewed said they liked their new hair better than their old. Some said it changed color, came in thicker, or came in curlier or straighter. Only time would tell my fate.

            I had chemotherapy every three weeks. After the first treatment my hair fell out. Two and one-half weeks after the second treatment, I could see a little hair beginning to grow back—really just a shadow. But I could see it because it was white—pure white. Was I going to have white hair? The third chemo made that little bit of white fuzz fall out. But a few days before the fourth treatment, I noticed that white shadow again. Dr. Prystas said she had seen hair come back different colors during chemo than what actually stayed once the chemo was over. I wouldn't have minded pure white hair. It was just that I didn't relish the thoughts of any more changes.

Eyebrows and Lashes

            I had almost no hair anywhere on my body. My eyebrows and eyelashes were greatly thinned but not gone for which I was thankful. My eyebrows were the same dead hair I had felt on my head the day it fell out but somehow there were still enough of them to make me look fairly normal. I figured the last time I could lose them would be three weeks after the last chemo. I remember that day well. I was lying on my bed trying to read. Every few minutes an eyelash would fall into my eye blocking my vision. This went on all afternoon. Finally, I dragged myself to the bathroom to see what was happening. Before the day was over, I had lost about 80% of what was left of my brows and lashes. Now I looked like an alien for sure.

"Look, Honey, No Hair"—the Benefits

            There are certain benefits of having no hair such as not having to shave my legs. All those five months (I was totally bald from May 30 to mid-November), I didn't have to use more than a smidgen of shampoo; I didn't have to have my hair cut, styled, or colored; and I could be ready to go out in fifteen minutes.

            About three weeks after the last chemo, a little hair began sprouting. It felt very bristly. I could envision using gallons of moose and gel and looking very scary. A month passed. The hair growth seemed slow. What hair there was looked salt and peppery.  Another month passed and another month and yet another.  On November 16, 117 days after the last chemo, I woke up feeling brave. I had a doctor's appointment. Surely I could go there without a hat. I did. My hair was about one-sixteenth of an inch long. It was obvious I had had chemo or so I thought. Just as I was ready to leave for the appointment, our plumber stopped by to repair a leaky toilet. He looked at me and said, “What did you do to make the barber so mad?”

Six Months Later

            This is what I wrote on my six-month anniversary of my last chemo. “Today is my actual six-month anniversary (January 22, 1997) since my last chemo. Every time I look in the mirror I have to smile. I have about an inch of dark, curly hair. There is no white; there is no gray. It is not bristly but soft, thick, and wavy. I look younger. I smile again in the mirror. At least there is one positive to this hair loss ordeal after all. I’ve gone from straight to bald to curly.

Support Session #5: Curly Hair at Fifty-two

·      If you are in the process of losing your hair, take pictures.

·      If you are bald, take pictures.

·      If your hair is growing back, take pictures.

·      If you have some fun wigs or hats or earrings, take pictures.

·      Each of these stages is temporary and (we pray) a once in a lifetime event.

·      Your hair will come back and you won’t have pictures if you don’t take them now.

·      When your hair has come back and you are feeling good enough, call the American Cancer Society or any other cancer organization and ask them if they want your used wigs, turbans, scarves, and hats to pass on to another woman.