Head's Up

It's 830pm and Boris and I are eating dinner. I've worn my hair up all day and my head is starting to hurt. I take my rubber-band out and notice a lot of hair has come out as well. Shit. My hair is starting to go. I was hoping that the doctors would be wrong, that somehow, my pregnancy hormones and prenatal vitamins would prevent baldness. I try to ignore my rubber-band because I'm used to shedding. I think it goes along with having lots of curly hair. But now I'm sitting on the couch with Boris, tugging on my hair like I do every night to make sure it's not going anywhere and....it's going somewhere. It's coming out in small clumps and I'm freaking out. Boris is ready to shave his head tonight, but for some reason, I'm still hoping this isn't really happening.

But it is. Each time I rest my head on a pillow, I lift my head up immediately and take a cautious peek to see if there's any hair on it. "What on earth are you doing?" Boris wants to know. "I'm just seeing if there's much falling out," I say. Boris asks if Gossip Girl will cause more or less hair to fall out and should we watch it now?

A few days after round 1 of chemo, my head started itching and I would routinely tell Boris at odd hours of the night and morning that I thought my hair was falling out. It wasn't. One morning at 400am, I started sneezing and woke Boris up to inform him that I was sure my nose hair was falling out. "Um..." he grunted, "try to sleep, Snuggler," he said. Not a bad response for 400am.

On the day I was diagnosed with cancer, Boris informed me that he was going to shave his head in an act of solidarity. For the past week, he's been jokingly telling me that he needs a haircut and wishes my hair would fall out already so he can shave his off. I ask him if he's sure he wants to shave his head. "Do you think we'll freak Miles out if we're both bald?" I ask. Boris doesn't think so. I remind him that I'm going to wear a fabulous wig 24 hours a day, except at pre-school interviews where I'm going in bald and as giantly pregnant looking as possible.

I've always had a love-hate relationship with my hair. When I was younger, I had stick straight hair which I didn't appreciate until I hit puberty and it suddenly got curly. But not good curly. Confused curly. Parts were straight, parts were wavy, parts were curly. All of it was huge. I was in denial for a few years and tried to blow dry it straight. Not something most 12 year olds are good at. My hair looked crazy. I had to give in to the curl which got tighter and tighter for the next few years. But then the curls started to loosen and the bulk lessened and after I graduated from law school, I loved my hair. It was good curly - like Sarah Jessica Parker curly. I encouraged everyone I could to embrace their curl. So I've learned to love and appreciate my hair just in time to lose it. I have no idea how it will grow back or what I'll look like.

When I learned I had cancer and that my hair would fall out, one of the first things I did was find out who the best wig maker in the city was. I am not ashamed that I'm vain. I was at his salon 2 days later. He took pictures, locks of my hair, $4000 and promised I'd be thrilled with my new hair. For $4000 I fucking better be. One friend thinks that for the price, the wig ought to come with a Sherpa and a masseuse. I agree. The wig maker tells me that when my hair starts to fall out, I should come to the salon immediately so that he can cut my hair. He's going to make some pieces out of it that I can wear with a scarf or hat (neither of which I've ever worn in my life) when I don't want to wear the wig. For $4000, I have to wear the wig 24 hours a day for the rest of my life, I tell him. I also ask if I'm a bad person for not donating my hair to people less fortunate than I am. He says I'm a good person for thinking about the donation. Besides, I can donate the wig and pieces when my new hair grows in.

I've only seen the wig once. It was sitting on a mannequin head. The wig maker wanted to know what I thought. What do I think? I think I see a wig on a mannequin head. I can't picture what it will look like on me, nor do I want to. But the curl isn't the same as mine and I swear it's kindof red. Plus, the wig maker informs me that I'll need bangs. Me? Bangs? Oy. He can't fit the wig or "style it" until my hair falls out...so there's something to look forward to.

I wake up this morning and immediately check out my pillow. No hair. But when I run my fingers through my hair, clumps come out. I show Boris. "Look how much falls out when I do this," I say. "Well why don't you stop doing that, genius," he says and smiles. I don't know what to do. I don't want to watch my hair slowly fall out over the next few days, but what if it's not going to totally fall out? Maybe it's just thinning? Wishful thinking. It's falling out. But just on my head. Of course my bikini, armpit and leg hair are hanging tough. Rude! All the doctors have said with confidence that every last hair on my head is going and once it starts falling out, it will all fall out in 2 or 3 days.

I speak to the wig maker and go in at 1100am. It's almost 100 degrees outside so it's a perfect day to wear a wig. I bring an old friend, Suzanne, who had been one of my dearest friends on earth and I stopped talking to her after college for reasons that are embarrassingly trivial. Ironically, we were reunited at our high school reunion which she resisted going to and have been in touch since. She is brutally honest, even if you're pregnant with cancer. Just the kind of friend I need for this. She's amazing. As the wig maker is about to shave my head, Suzanne asks if I'm sure I want to watch. "It's going to happen whether you're looking or not. You sure you don't want me to turn the chair around?" she asks. I'm sure. The wig maker shears my thick, curls off. I feel like a sheep. It's shocking to watch the hair fall away. When the last clump falls to the floor, I turn to Suzanne and say "well, that's done." "Yes, that's done," she says. I tell her I look like a man and she says "funny, I was just thinking how beautiful you look." I'm fitted with my wig and am relieved that it doesn't look like a wig. It doesn't look like my hair, but it doesn't look fake and I'm okay with it. Suzanne assures me the color is perfect and that it's unbelievable how real it looks. No one will ever know it's a wig she promises. I believe her.

I come home to greet Miles and Boris with my new do. Miles thinks it's funny and laughs and giggles at me. Boris thinks I look great with bangs and thinks the bangs make me look younger. "You look like a pregnant teenager," he says. Fantastic. It's hot and I'm not used to the wig, so I decide to sport my bald head around the house. Miles loves it. He rubs his hands on my head and even takes a lick. I decide I look pretty badass -- like G.I. Jane with a perfectly shaped head. This was one of the scariest parts of chemo to me since I am vain and couldn't imagine looking okay bald. But I do look okay and I even like it...just a little.

Boris comes home from work with dinner. I'm on the treadmill - bald. He looks at me and says "you look good," then walks upstairs like it's totally normal to see your pregnant, bald wife strutting her stuff on the treadmill. I look in the mirror and think he's right.