Clippers, tears and a wig....

As I wash my hair on day 21 of my first Chemo cycle, hair clumps slide out into my hands and my fingers are a tangle of strands. Like collecting shells I line the clumps up on the side of the bath. The plug hole is clogged like the kitchen sink after rice crusted plates are washed.

I stare at my bald spots as I clutch a mirror, like a contortionist I try to get a peek from all angles…

“It’s time” I tell Mr H when he wanders in from work. I’ll just get changed he sighs.

Let’s do it in the garden he suggests with a wry smile as he picks up the clippers. We agree on a number 2.

As Mr H moves the clippers over my head I watch my hair drop onto the grass.  He works silently apart from asking if I am OK?  

Yes I sniff. I hear tears in Mr H’s voice as he hides his eyes behind shades…

 

But the air is filled with the twitter of new life as the parents of our baby Blue Tits flutter in and out of the bird box behind me.

 There he announces as he places the clippers onto the deckchair.

I wander inside in the hope I now look like Sinead O’Connor. Instead we agree my head is like a badgers bum, a mixture of black and white spikes.

I plonk myself down on the settee and bawl like a baby grieving for my blond sun bleached hair. Mr H sits beside me and tries to swallow his tears but some trickle down his cheeks.

Lets go out Mr H announces, go shopping, no time like the present…

Hang on while I put my hair on…

The next day I ask myself did I cut it too soon, I should have had another day with my hair, I cut it too soon...

In the following days I grab at a hat when the doorbell rings, pop upstairs to fetch my hair when I go for a walk and wear my hat when I go to bed to collect the never ending bits which fall out in the night…