Hair Fall-Out: Day One

I’m taking my wig for a test drive today. My hair is starting to come out. It’s much shorter, since I cut it a couple of weeks ago to the nape of my neck; so it’s not as bad when I see a sink full of hair. But, it’s no frickin’ picnic.

I’ve long been a shedder. Lots and lots of hair: hair to spare. How long until bald patches happen? When do I go for the military buzz cut? When my part resembles parting of the Red Sea?

I put the La Charme wig cap on my head. I pulled the nylon (as in pantyhose) cap down over my face, and looked like I was ready to rob a bank. I really didn’t want to draw that much attention to myself on my first outing, so I pushed it back, which reminded me of the actresses of days gone by—Gloria Swanson, Garbo, those true glamour girls of Hurrell’s Hollywood portraits. I was ready.

I went to Trader Joes…looking kinda crazy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Not a bad wig, kind of a Jane Fonda Klute shag, but it looks like a wig and I kept wondering if I didn’t look like the Caribbean lady I often see at the bus stop, her matted Godiva locks askew as she gestures and yells at her invisible friends.

Day Two

I’m trying to thinking of the pros. The cons are obvious, no?

“Think of the joy of several months free of the chore of waxing or shaving your legs, underarm or bikini line.” — cancerbackup.org

Joy?? That word has not yet come to mind.

OK, the pros: One sure way to get complements is to tell your friends you’re going to be bald. Who knew I had such great bone structure?

Saving time and money: If I had a nickel for each hour I’ve spent on hair maintenance and products—cutting, drying, styling, straightening, coloring, highlighting, de-frizzing—I would be a rich woman. Not to mention all the time lost during those hours trapped in salons aka “hair prison”.
Hiatus from shaving and plucking: Please let me keep my eyebrows—or as my European mother calls them “eyebrowns”—and my eyelashes.

Last night I slept wearing a hair net to keep the hair from pulling off on my pillow. I looked like the cafeteria lady. “Would you like some mashed potatoes with your meatloaf, Hon?”

Day Three: Pre-Buzz

Enough hair debris! Today I’m going to do it. Go for the buzz cut. My kind friend David said it would “be an honor” and he and my dear pal Rebecca (The Mermaid Queen) have offered to do it in their home. Rebecca is sure to keep me laughing and distracted as David does the buzzzzing. I decided not to go all ritual-like and just DO IT! Did I mention that I put vodka in my health juice drink?

Day Four: Buzzed

David did a great job. As their 24-year-old black cat Max sat on my lap, Rebecca reminded me to channel my inner goddess. I’ve been channeling my inner princess for months now, easy, right? Yet, I still have one more stage to go: bald as an 8-ball. Right now my head is Sinead O’Conner-esque (circa 1992, when she torn up the photo of the pope on SNL) and it’s not that bad!

Just before the deed, I called Mara, who’s been through it all before me. She told me it was freeing. I do feel liberated, and really, it’s not that bad. A bit cold though. I think the anticipation was much worse than the reality.

I drove home listening to The Best of Aretha, looking at a beautiful view of the San Francisco Bay, the mountains dark against a most magnificent sunset, knowing this too shall pass and it’s going to be fine. My hair should be growing back in March, and spring is my favorite season.

The weather report predicts rain for tomorrow. There will be NO FRIZZ in my forecast. No bad hair days for a while. See there is an upside to wigging out. And so, I’m planning on buying a blue one, just for fun.

Cathy first wrote about her bout with breast cancer and her favorite charity, Breast Cancer Action, in “My Big Pink Protest” October 2008. Her posts appear on FiftyIsTheNew.com.

Most of my friends and family know, but I haven’t wanted to blog about it. I really don’t want to be the poster child. When my friend Ilana sent an email with the subject line that said, “Free Yoga Classes for Cancer Survivors,” I thought, why is she sending that to me? Oh yeah, right.

I didn’t sign up for this club, but now I find I am a card-carrying member. I’m doing really well, eight weeks past my second surgery. I got off easy, relatively speaking: I donated two breasts to science, but got away with no chemo, no radiation. I’ve an amazing team of doctors and strategists who have helped me navigate this medical journey. And an equally amazing band of angels, earthly and otherwise, watching over me, protecting me, gifting me, helping me day to day, showing me that I am loved and supported. I seem to have kept my sense of humor through it all—not that I haven’t cried.

But I’ve got to tell you I’m not buying into this big pink thing. The ribbons, the tchotchkes—I find it a bit irritating actually. I know I know. Money is being raised for good causes—sometimes—and other times, it’s just about manufacturers finding a way to make a buck that also makes them look good. Pink golf clubs. Pink boxing gloves. Pink rhinestone flip-flops. Pink, pink, pink! And some businesses only donate a pittance of their profits. Sheesh!

But not all goes unchecked. Through this great organization, Breast Cancer Action, I’ve recently learned of pinkwashers:

Pinkwasher: (pink’-wah-sher) noun

A company that purports to care about breast cancer by promoting a pink ribbon campaign, but manufactures products that are linked to the disease.

That is just not good.
BCA has a campaign called “Think Before You Pink.” This year they’ve chosen Yoplait:

“Yoplait is urging consumers to buy its yogurt in the name of breast cancer. But what’s under the lid might not be so good for our health—it’s actually made with milk from cows that have been treated with the synthetic hormone rBGH.”

They also list questions to ask before buying pink ribbon products. Yes! Now that’s what I call awareness!

I realize that I’ve benefited from the great strides made in medical research over the past five years—which I’m sure has in some part been funded by the “parade of pink”. Still, this pink thing just rankles me, and I feel that I’ve earned the right to say so.

I guess I’m not a joiner. I don’t belong to a support group and I didn’t wear the “survivor” T-shirt or take a bow at the Walk. It’s this man-made/chemical/environmental cancer thing that’s got me riled up. Dealing with the cause is really important and it seems as though the mainstream cancer organizations are mostly focused on the cure.

Research papers are white and so are lab coats, hormone-free yogurt too. And then there’s white light. I’m thinking white is the new pink. That works for me.