I decided to take matters into my own hands when I realised that while I did in fact have lots of hair left on my head, it was so thin and patchy that I no longer felt I could venture outside without some sort of cover.
So I got the nearest pair of scissors and my husband’s hair clippers and chopped off what I could. That was about three weeks ago and since then the wig has been a de rigeur accessory whenever I’m outside. I assumed that was it, but when I was up in Glasgow this past weekend, my youngest brother and I got chatting and we agreed he should use his own hair clippers to finish the job off. I realise this sounds a bit grim but it was in fact done amid much hilarity.
So there I was, on Monday night, sitting on a chair in my parents’ kitchen with a towel around my shoulders. We advised my parents to stay clear as I’m pretty sure it would have freaked them out to see their youngest son shaving their only daughter’s head.
My baby brother, clippers in hand, sounded every inch the barber. In time-honoured fashion, he asked me about my holidays and we chatted about the weather… and we had a laugh about whether I’d need something for the weekend (some of you younger folk, especially if you’re female, may have to Google that).
It was over before I knew it. I was completely bald and smooth-headed, and I guess that’s how I’ll be until my hair starts to grow back in once I finish chemo.
It does feel very weird. Two days on, I haven’t yet found the confidence to let anyone else other than my husband see it. Give it time, I guess. And who knows? You may even see a photo of the bare-headed me on this blog. Not yet, though. But that’s partly because the only photos I have at the moment are those I took on Monday night… and since baby bro looks so much better in them than I do, they’re staying on my phone! I still have my pride.