Hair

Well, the good news after my previous post is that apparently chemobrain isn’t always permanent. It might only be with me for a year or so. Personally, my guess is that people just get very good at dealing with it, so that when a year has gone by, and a research scientist asks them if it has got better, they say “yes” and don’t mention that their house is littered with post-it notes of things to remember, and that they have stopped using sentences containing those long words that are liable to fall into that tricky gap between brain and lips. And the ones who don’t say “yes” say “chemobrain? What’s chemobrain? No, we definitely didn’t discuss it at my last appointment.“ Which could lead me into a whole reflection about the validity of empirical scientific research, but stay with me, because I’m not going down that path. No, today I’m talking HAIR.

The good news about hair is that it DOES grow back. Boobs - no, brain cells – maybe, hair – definitely yes. Hurrah for hair. And mine has started. But oooow, it is soooo sloooow. Think how patient you have to be to grow out a fringe or layers. Then imagine that your fringe is starting from zero, and that actually, your whole mop is starting from zero. We’re talking a loooong tiiiime.

They do warn you that it might grow back different to how it has been, but that over time, it will revert. Over time? How much time? What if the forces of reversion encounter the forces of aging moving in the opposite direction? Which is what might well happen in my case. For my hair (and this was a dark fear of mine) is growing in grey. It started off when I was a child as white blond, and has just got darker gradually throughout my life. From blond in my childhood, through fair in my 20s, through mid brown in my 30s, it had got as far as dark brown with a little grey in it. The half inch or so that I now have is black and grey together, but probably more grey than black. Like the brain cells, it’s as if chemo just skipped my body along a couple of decades. I hate that. By the time my hair has decided to revert to brown, it will be time for it to be grey anyway. I used to dye my hair to cover up the grey in a rather lackadaisical fashion, every now and again picking up a colour from Boots and seeing what it came out as. I foresee a future where I will have to be much more organized, pick a colour, stick with it, and get it done professionally every few weeks. Bother.

And here’s a cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for. I’ve always had very fine hair (we thin-haired people use that word ‘fine’). I’ve always hated that, so I hoped that it might grow back a bit thicker, and I’d noticed that the grey hairs I did have were a bit thicker than their brown friends, so I thought it was a possibility. Well, it is growing back thicker, and guess what. I don't like it. It’s like having a doormat on my head. What happened to my lovely flyaway wispy fine stuff? I want to be ME again. ME, with the hair I complain about.

Last night, we were watching the last few minutes of Oprah at the White House, and I said to Husband “I look like Obama”. He is a patient man, and with a slightly puzzled expression, he replied “Erm, I don’t think you do look very like him”. “His hair! His hair!” I explained, “I have Obama’s hair!” Husband, who is as honest as he is patient, had to confess that yes, I do have Obama’s hair.

What’s a girl to do? Well, apart from sticking with the hats for a while, which I’ve become rather fond of actually, I’ve decided that I’m going to hope that an Obama cut becomes 2010’s top look for women. I mean, he’s got himself elected to the most powerful job in the world, he’s won the Nobel peace prize – surely it can only be a matter of time before his hairstyle catches on? Galloping quickly through the decades, we’ve had the Purdey cut (remember that one?), the Diana cut, the Rachel cut. Surely the time is ripe for the Obama cut?

Meanwhile, looking for a voice of sanity in a mad world, I was talking to 5-yo on the subject. “I’m a bit sad about my hair”, I said. “It’s not growing back the same as it used to be.” She thought about it for a few seconds, and replied “It’s ok”. Then thought a bit longer and repeated “It’s ok”.

I didn’t know whether she meant the hair was ok, or whether it was ok to be sad, but I found it comforting anyway. They know a thing or two about life, do 5 year olds.

“And,” she added, “now you match Daddy!”

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