FROM HAIR TO THERE: A Lesson in Acceptance

"Give me a head of hair, long beautiful hair, shining, streaming, gleaming, flaxen, waxen ..."  From Hair, the Musical

When I graduated from middle school, my yearbook had captions under the names of each of the students.  Descriptions like "Most Likely to Become President," "Most likely to Marry a Millionaire," "Most Likely to Win the Nobel Prize."  These were given to each of the graduates by their fellow classmates.  Under my photo was a curious caption, "Girl Most Likely to Become Lady Godiva."  Yes, I know, odd.  I've often wondered how the teachers let that one go through, but in a way it was completely appropriate.  You see, I've always had long hair.  Sometimes below my waist, but most always flowing down my back.  I suppose it's my Italian heritage that enables me to grow it as long as I want and I'm grateful, because as a child I felt terribly ordinary and my hair was the one thing that made me feel special, dare I say, beautiful.  

With few exceptions, throughout my life I kept my hair long.  Oh, there was that time in the Eighties when I chopped it all off, dyed it bright orange, and spiked it out.  What was I thinking?  Not sure.  It certainly wasn't my intention to look like a member of A Flock of Seagulls, but I assure you I did.  Happily, once I came to my senses, it didn't take long for me to grow it all back because, like I said, I'm blessed with the good hair gene.

So what happens when you feel attached to your hair and wake up two weeks after having your first round of chemotherapy and see piles of it on the pillow?  The answer is you panic.  And I did.  No amount of warning prepared me.  One day it was fine and the next day it was falling out in handfuls.  It was the oddest thing and it was mortifying.  Of course, I knew it would happen at some point, although it did come sooner than my doctor had advised, and I knew that it would only be temporary, but the idea that I would have to face even six months without hair depressed me. 

After about an hour of private hysteria I called my pal Jennie, one of my style gurus.  "I'm going to be so ugly (sob sob) ... who will find me attractive (sob sob) ... how will I get through this (sniffle sniffle sniffle)?"  Well, Jennie, a take-no-prisoners kind of a gal, wheeled over in her Jeep and whisked me off to several very nice stores where she bought me hip colorful scarves and showed me how to tie them fashionably around my head.  I was grateful for the help, but inside I was madder at my cancer than a hornet that's been sat on by a bull!  I didn't wanna know how to tie scarves, I didn't wanna look like a socialite sunning herself on the Isle of Capri.  No!  I just wanted to have my hair back!  But that wasn't to be and I knew it.  So, once again, I did my very best impression of a brave girl and went and got my head buzzed a la GI Jane.  What a surprise to see myself, really see myself, for the first time.  No hair, just eyes and lips and cheekbones.  Nothing to frame my face except my big ears.  It was fascinating, but it made me cry all the more.  I ... wanted ... my ... hair!  I would wake in the middle of the night, go into the bathroom, and stare in the mirror trying to fill in the hair like one of those childhood Hair Do Harriet games where you move around fuzzy metal shards with a magic magnetic wand.  Where was that magic wand now?

I suffered through the trauma of hair loss until the Monday after my buzz cut when my wonderful sister once again came to my rescue.  Leslie took me to a wig shop in Manhattan and we had a great time as I tried on all sorts of lengths, colors, and styles.  What I learned that day was that hair really does change your look.  You can be Marilyn Monroe, Diana Ross, Marianne Faithful, even Tina Turner.  We had lots of laughs as we picked out two completely different personalities.  One was a short, sassy, honey-colored cut and the other was a sophisticated platinum bob.  Now I could be Sassy Diane or Sophisticated Diane according to my mood.  And in the tradition of "it takes a village," so many of my good girlfriends pitched in to help with designer scarves, summer hats, and the crowning glory to my collection, a long blonde wig gifted to me by my darling friend Nikki.  When I put it on in the wig shop and looked into the mirror I finally felt like me again. 

Now let's talk about the men in my life.  They were wonderful too.  I have lots of great guy friends and they all, without exception, confessed that they found bald women sexy (due, in no small part I'm assuming, to the pioneering efforts of Sinead O'Connor, Demi Moore, and Veeger, the robot cum space probe in the first Star Trek movie).  A couple of guys even told me they'd shave their heads in solidarity.  I was told that I was sexy and beautiful no matter whether I had hair or not.  What an outpouring of support.  

My new hair consciousness got me to thinking about how strongly hair is tied in with our standards of beauty and how I wasn't the only one who was preoccupied with it.  People who have curly hair want straight.  People who have straight want curly.  There's the myth of blondes having more fun, redheads being fast, brunettes being sultry.  We cut our hair, perm our hair, color our hair, weave our hair.  Our fairy tales show beautiful heroines with long, lush locks -- Cinderella, Pocahontas, and let's not forget Rapunzel.

So I defy anyone to tell me that it doesn't matter when you go bald in a culture that is obsessed with hair ... especially when you're a woman.  But as with any other major change in life, it's an opportunity for self-discovery, albeit one that's forced upon you.  Every woman who I've talked to who has lost her hair to cancer has had to come to terms with it.  Personally, I've railed at the gods, cried, and complained, but I am finally making peace with it.  It's not because I'm so evolved that I can handle this hair crisis on my own.  Oh, no, no, no.  It's because over and over again the people around me who I trust and love have reinforced the belief that my beauty does not depend on my hair.  I'm a strong woman with an inner and outer beauty that they value and appreciate.  And you know what?  I now look at my bald self in the mirror and think that I am beautiful, not in spite of my baldness, but because of it.  It has been a stunning realization.  In fact, just this afternoon something happened that showed me that I've come to terms with this no-hair phase of my life.  I actually walked out of the house bald.  I'd completely forgotten that I hadn't covered my head with a wig, a hat, or even a scarf, and I didn't mind at all.  Guess I've finally gotten from hair ... to there.