Hair!

Hair is a blessing and a curse.  Especially for women.  Also maybe for men who have balding heads along with bodies covered in fur like Silverbacks.  I never realized how much I loved my hair until I went through six sessions of chemotherapy and it all fell out.  And I never realized how much I hated it until I began experiencing the 'growing back' stages that followed my final treatment.

After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ.  I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo.  Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed.  Seriously.  They didn't want my hair.  What woman is sporting her natural hair color?  I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky.  I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time.  I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?

I purchased a wig before I shaved my head.  It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob.  Classic yet sassy.  I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed.  Steroid folliculitis.  Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head.  It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.

You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end.  By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair.  At first I loved it.  I was so happy it was back.  It was so low maintenance.  Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk.  I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy.  I decided a 'brightening up' might help.  I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist.  I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet.  Sexy.

My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way.  She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began.  She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head.  But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.

This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day.  Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace.  My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back.  But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification.  As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me.  I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were.  I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen.  I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.

Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great.  It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume.  I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s.  Only blond.  And maybe less glamorous.  But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it.  Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again.  Well, maybe not 'normal.'  Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.