I’m standing in the bathroom combing my hair. I notice clumps of hair falling in the sink. I scratch my head and even more hair falls out. My scalp feels itchy and sensitive, especially when I run my fingers through my hair from left to right, backward and forward. This is unreal. I feel uncomfortable looking at myself in the backlit bathroom mirror.
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My hair started to fall out two weeks after the second chemo treatment. A doctor had already warned me that I was going to lose my hair. However, since I was allergic to the first chemo substance and had to switch to Docetaxel, another doctor said that I might not lose my locks after all.
The nurse nevertheless recommended an icecap (as well as ice mittens and ice socks to protect nails) during the second chemo treatment.
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| Ice mittens and socks |
Icecaps are tightly fitting like bathing caps and filled with cold gel to constrict the blood vessels and prevent the chemo substance from reaching the hair follicles. Wearing an icecap is somewhat uncomfortable, especially during the first ten to fifteen minutes when the cold is almost unbearable. According to the website of a manufacturer, icecaps are cooled to -30 degrees celsius, so wearing one felt like a true arctic experience. However, once my skin got adjusted to the temperature, the treatment became more bearable.
Despite the new chemo substance and the icecap, I knew I would probably lose my hair. Still, seeing strands of hair in my hand was downright shocking.
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Earlier, one of my sons advised me to cut my hair short. “It will make it easier for you to adjust to having less hair, mum,” he convinced me. It seemed like good advice. I always had my hair at collarbone length, just long enough to wear a ponytail in summer and have it down in winter. Short cut hair would become my new style.
A few days before my first chemo treatment, I bravely marched to my regular hairsalon. I explained my new status as a cancer patient and calmly asked the stylist to cut my hair short.
I seemed serene at first, but as soon as the hairstylist put the scissors in my hair, I felt as if the ground was disappearing underneath me. I burst into tears. The hairstylist hugged me when she noticed my mood had changed and did her best to comfort me. She even modelled my hair according to a fancy short cut model from a picture on her mobile phone. I left the salon with well-coiffed hair but utterly upset and distressed.
That very same day, my husband, also trying to comfort me, took me to a sports shop. We bought three comfortable hats, all the same but in different colours.
I was very upset when I came home that day. In the bathroom mirror, I saw a pale cancer patient with bags under her watery, blue eyes.
My feelings surprised me. Generally, I don’t consider myself a frivolous, concerned-with-my-looks kind of woman. I mean I don’t care about make-up or dyed hair. My morning bathroom routine doesn’t take more than five minutes and I’m not obsessed with the latest fashion although I like colourful clothes. No, I go for clean and practical. So why am I upset about losing my hair?
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Over the course of writing this blog text, I gradually get a sneaky feeling that my hair does relate to my identity more than I initially want to admit. It takes me a week to come to some sort of a conclusion.
First, getting bald will identify me as seriously ill or as a cancer patient. It’s not that I want to keep that information away from the world, but there is a difference between saying or showing that you have cancer. I’m in control of my words. I can decide when and with whom I want to share information about my condition. Moreover, I can make the message as long or short as I prefer and choose the channels: face-to-face, via email, phone, social media or this blog.
A bald head simply gives no room for nuances. I will be at the mercy of opinions from insiders and outsiders and I’m just not sure how I will cope with the looks or the diplomatic or undiplomatic words from others during this stressful time.
Second, about my appearance. My hair is white, not grey, and often strangers compliment me on my hair colour. I vividly remember a moment at the gym from two years ago. I was frantically rowing to improve my cardiovascular endurance, when five unknown ladies surrounded me. Staring down at me they asked “onko se oma väri?” or if that was my own colour. “Yesss” I nodded out of breath wondering what this was all about. It turned out to be a compliment about my hair colour. Their message certainly gave me a sense of pride.
Third, when I arrange to meet with new people in a public space, I always tell them to look for a tall white-haired lady. My height (1.80m) and my hair colour are my trademarks, and make me certainly stand out from the crowd here in Finland.
Last, it’s a genetic issue. My grandmother from my father’s side had beautiful white, carefully styled hair. Also, my dad has distinguished silver, curly hair, although now at age 81, his hair has become thinner. My hair makes me feel connected with my predecessors. I’m the next in line blessed with pearly white hair.
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Of course, people tell me that my hair will grow back, as if I didn’t know that, but I don’t think they realise how important hair is and how it feels when you're losing it. Hair not only protects us and keeps us warm – nowadays I wear a hat in bed – but it’s also a noticeable aspect of who we are and our self-esteem.
Luckily, over time, the shock over my short hair wears off. Looking at the selfie I took on the first day my hair was falling out, I gradually began to like my fresh look. I might decide to keep it short after the chemos. According to the World Trichology Society, an organisation that studies human hair and scalp in health and disease, hair grows between 0.5 and 1.7 centimetres per month.
It seems I have plenty of time to decide on a new hairstyle.
