I’ve always wanted to do it. But I’ve always been afraid to do it. We all have challenges we face fearlessly, and we all have issues that terrify us. One of the worst things we do to one another is ridicule one another because those issues differ from person to person. In my case, I’ve been deeply conditioned to consider my hair one of my most advantageous “feminine attributes”. I have a friend Melissa who’s done it numerous times and loved it. Another friend, Kelly, recently did it for the first time and raved about the experience. The idea of buzzing all of my hair off beckoned me, but deep down, I didn’t dare.
It is a surrealistic experience when cancer comes to visit. We watch it happen to those around us almost daily, since it’s an epidemic. We may even wonder what it would be like if it knocked on our door. We may feel like we know, since we’ve watched it knock on the next door neighbor’s door, the door across the street, and our family member’s door in another state. But until it knocks on our own door, we don’t belong to the club. We have no idea.
The friendly staff at the Grass Valley Cancer Center (at Sierra Nevada Memorial Hospital) broke it to my husband—he had an 87% chance of losing his hair two weeks after his first round of chemo. They could tell him the actual day, and they did. Once he started chemo he could no longer donate the hair. Jack last cut his hair (more than a trim) in 1980, when Reagan was president. The discharge folks in the Navy didn’t like his attitude, so they wouldn’t sign the papers until they shaved him. He acquiesced, took his Honorable Discharge, and headed for Yosemite. When I met him twenty-five years later, he was immediately fond of my long hair.
Rockaway Beach, Oregon. 2013.
A few days after he received the 87% diagnosis, we were sitting at our favorite restaurant in Yuba City, and Indian place with a full bar. We’d just come from a consult at UC Davis Med Center with another oncologist, the sparkly Dr. Christensen, who told him he would most definitely lose his hair. “We passed a Super Cuts a few blocks that way,” he motioned. “I may go buzz it after lunch.”
I took a gulp of my Cosmopolitan, which was really a souped-up vodka-cran, before I answered. “Do you still want me to buzz my hair with you?” His smile said “Yes” even though his words were more politically correct. He knows better than to tell a woman what to do with any part of her body, even her hair.
He didn’t decide till we got in the truck, but then he was sure and we made a beeline. It turns out if you donate your hair, the cut is free. Who knew? We were the only two in the shop, and as if scripted for extra drama, the women seated us with our back to each other. It was as quick as it was cheap.
Rebecca made sure my hair never touched the floor. By now it’s an adult wig (since it’s part gray) sold to benefit children with cancer.
Rebecca, who buzzed my hair, patted me sweetly on the shoulder when I told her my motivation. “I’d do the same thing for my husband,” she said. Then she added, “But I don’t know if he’d do it for me.” I briefly wondered the same, but then I realized it did not matter.
I suddenly felt like I looked like a supporting character in “Orange is the New Black”, but a lesbian friend told me my clothes were all wrong.
The deadline for Jack’s hair loss came and went. “We must have misunderstood,” I said. “It must fall out during the second round of chemo.” But when that time came around, the nurse said, no, it would have already fallen out if it were going to. I could see Jack was a bit bummed, but in the grand scheme of things, of course, not really. He can’t wait for my hair to grow back, and I can tell he silently hopes I never cut it again. I am still reflecting on why and how I summoned the courage when I did. I felt at the time, deep down, that if Jack couldn’t forget he had cancer, I didn’t want to either. I wanted a visual, tactile reminder of my minute-to-minute solidarity. If he was bold enough to fight cancer, I could be bold enough to buzz off this thick, soft symbol of my identity. And of course, hair grows back.
Just after. Photo by Rebecca.
When a friend of mine started a cancer support group called Blessed By Cancer, I thought she was a little crazy. But now I get it. When cancer knocks on your door and demands attention, priorities magically realign. The present takes center stage and the trivial and petty are more easily discarded. Fears change places like they are in a game of musical chairs. A good day becomes a tangible blessing. And those who truly love you show up along with it—suddenly at your door with food and energy and humor and unconditional love.
My hair is growing back faster than Jack’s, which perplexes him and probably annoys him. My son’s girlfriend says my hair is the perfect length now, and it’s time for a trim. It’s coming on winter and I’ll be wearing hats and scarves even more than usual. As for the future of my hair, I don’t want to think about that now. It’s not that important to me at the moment. There are so many things to do and read–and most of all appreciate each day, including the hair on my husband’s head. Here’s to another 25 years without him cutting it again.
Someday soon….
You look so beautiful! You have the face for a buzz! I buzzed my hair, too, about 15 years or so ago and it made me feel really zen-like for awhile! Many blessings to you and Jack. I’ll keep you in my prayers.
A friend said I look like a monk. More monk than dyke for some reason. Thanks, Peggy. I remember your buzz now–it did look good!
oh CC………..oooxoxoxoooo
xoxoxo
wow, you two look hot!
Why thank you! Great to see you here.
What a wonderful essay. Thank you again for sharing your life with us and much love to both of you.
They just come….Thank you for being one of the folks who shows up at our door with that unconditional love.
Dear Carolyn, your courage and compassion are truly inspiring. Cancer kicked in my front door one year into my marriage when Rolf was diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. His beautiful silver mane was replaced with down–this gorgeous man looked like a baby bird! But I treasured every tuft. Now, nine years later, we’re still here. His silver hair sparkles and glows. He continues to rock his port–even got a tattoo of a paper airplane doing a loopdeloop around it (he was a recreational pilot before we met). Sending you both love and light. Buzz on!
Thanks Carolyn. One of the biggest lessons so far is how survivable cancer is today–as compared to the “death sentence” it usually was when I was a kid.
Beautiful story and life lessons. Thanks for sharing. Health and happiness to you and yours.
Thank you Jeff. Welcome home.
Shaving my head was a very profound experience. I am overwhelmed with emotion as I read your essay and view your photos. Sending all my love to you and Jack as you navigate this chapter in your beautiful life.
I didn’t see you during that time, but from photos I saw it looked like it was a profound experience. It definitely helped me summon the courage.Thanks for the love.
What a beautiful sharing of your mutual buzz cuts! I treasure your essays. I’m keeping Jack wrapped in love and healing thoughts. I’d love to get together with you. I’m just starting to drive distances again as my ankle heals. And your hip must be doing well now!
Love to you both!
The new one is great but the old one has me pretty immobile. Two months from today I’ll be coming back from Truckee after that hip is replaced. Give me six weeks after that and I should be ready to roll.
Wishing you the best on hip #2.
Hoping Javk can keep his spirits up during his ordeal. You need each other! Love is truly a vehicle for healing and mutual courage.
Very moving. It knocked on my door, twice (!) in 1994. All my hair fell out. Being bald was a humbling experience and there are many hidden blessings in a cancer dx — as counter intuitive as tat sounds
I didn’t know, Dixie. Thanks for sharing that with me. Who knew about the hidden blessings, right? Glad you are going strong decades later.
Beautiful external expression Carolyn of a very powerful internal intent. Wishing both you and Jack wellness every step of the way <3
Thank you for this beautiful, touching post – what a wonderful way to reaffirm your commitment to one another. And you’re so right, when serious illness comes around, issues like appearance will often not take higher priority. You’re so right to be grateful for your life, grateful to have this awesome relationship – truly inspiring.
What a beautiful love story. Hugs and love!
Hi Carolyn,
I finally read your full essay, it’s the most beautiful love story. I can remember when you and I were in San Francisco and you decided to cut your gorgeous red hair in my apartment — even at that time, I thought you were SO brave. And here you are, so many lifetimes later, providing such a rich example of what love means. Thank you for sharing this, it’s just lovely! Cancer is truly a game-changer no matter when and where it shows up — an opportunity to get to the heart of what’s important. I love how you and Jack are there for each other. Wishing you both peace, love and good news as you go forward. Sorry I haven’t been in better touch. Hope your next hip operation goes well! Keep strong, I love you. Cynthia xoxo
Thank you Cynthia. I have so many memories of our time together and your apartment on Ashbury. But I can’t remember cutting my hair there. Must have been the Suave Bolla. I feel connected to you every day. Starting next spring I will be able to travel easily again, and I’m sure I’ll get up your way. xoxo