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The Day I Shaved My Head

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Here’s how I shaved my head:

I’m out to prove a point, by the way, that what you read, see, hear about cancer is a load of shit. People posing triumphantly. Ringing a bell. Surrounded by family and friends. It’s often a production. Someone is sick and they have this wonderful support system and the world stops and your loved ones rush to you and at least someone stays, and makes sure you’re OK, and despite the illness, you are grateful and filled with hope and unicorns and rainbows.

I had several friends swear they would shave their head with me.

They did not.

I had a friend who was going to come and do it for me. He did not.

Instead! It went down like, fuck it. It has to be done. Hair (long black hair) was everywhere on my sheets and clothes and if I grabbed a small clump and tugged slightly it would fall right out. I’ve heard so many women recount the experience as traumatic, and I guess I understand that, but if you’ve known me even for a little while, you’re probably aware that I’ve never been shy about clippers.

So I say to myself, this is a proper time to day drink. I think it was like 11 a.m.? So I go to the local watering hole. As I open the door to this bar dungeon and let the sunlight in, who does it shine on, but the person that… I can’t find the right words… was my ex, then was my friend, now is basically my arch nemesis? Yeah, him. At my bar. On the day I’m shaving my head. My head. My bar. Motherfucker.

So what do I do except needle and prod him right up in his nebbish hobbit face to fucking leave so I could do this in peace. The weasel says… blah blah it’s my bar I come here all the time. And I was soooo angry I told him, not today it isn’t! He snuck out the back. I met him out front. And I punched him in the face.

Now. I had a double Jame-O neat.

Made my way to Great Clips. This is how dignified the process was for me. A bar fight, alone, friends forgot me, at a Great Clips. Had a few vodka nips in my purse. They do it for free, ya know, because everyone feels sorry for you. And typically, the hairdresser hesitated, all are you sure and whatnot and I drink some vodka and I’m like. Please. I don’t fucking care.

Buzz buzz. I say, so whaddya do now, like get a razor and whatever? She goes, oh you want it that short? I’m like yeah. I’m fucking going bald. Go shorter. Get it all, dammit.

The only other thing I remember is going home, on the bus. I did have a few head scarves with me because I wasn’t sure if I’d need em? There was snow on the ground. I put something on my head. I saw someone boarding, and they did a cursory glance. They paused on me, and I saw pity. I think it’s a dead giveaway that you’re ill if you’re a woman with a shaved head. But I am no shrinking violet. I simply decided, fuck everyone. Took that shit off my head. And I glared right back at every passenger that boarded and paused to stare a second longer at me. I still do.

To be clear, I am filled with terrible, terrible emotions that I work very hard on a daily basis to tame. I do it sober. I’m honest. I want everyone to know this experience is not sunshine and flowers. I think, in the worst case scenario, you might go through it with parents who don’t want you. No friends or family calling to check on you. No one there after surgery. Going home alone. Trying to connect with people and failing. Shrinking physically, losing body parts, looking at a stranger in the mirror. And so many people I love were there at the beginning, then they weren’t. I’m not bitter about it, I accept that everyone else has their own lives to attend to. It does break my heart, but I am not bitter. It’s ugly. I resent it. I want this to change me for the better, and it is. And I want the platitudes and the myths to disa-fucking-ppear.

Getty image via Alekseyliss

Originally published: December 15, 2020
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