man would ever wear a comb-over. Now I know. My comb-over is screaming that I can’t let go. I am holding on to those defiant pieces. I am begging them to stay put—no, ordering them to hang on, please pretty please. I refuse to let anyone trim them, those few combed-over patches (even comb-overs need a trim). I have become like one of those comb-over men because I will not let anyone near it.
People notice me on the street and then quickly lower their eyes. But they look up again. They are rubbernecking and I am the car wreck. They must wonder what is wrong with me and I think that is good. I want them to notice what breast cancer has done to me. I think about the other things that I had tried to cover up, like zits in high school. I want this flaw to get noticed.
I miss my ponytail most. It used to be a my-hair-is-such-a-mess-I-will-just-pull-it-back ponytail. Now, a ponytail seems like such a luxury. So much hair that it needs to be tied back? I can’t remember that. A ponytail seems like such a trophy of health and so carefree, and will I ever have a ponytail again just wagging back and forth like a happy dog’s tail?
Shampoo commercials seem to always be on. I watch and drool: the one where the woman flips her hair in slow motion and then they kind of freeze when she flips her hair back. That extended moment of hair glory is too much. It is hair porno. Way too hard core, nothing subtle about these commercials.
I start watching Hair Club for Men infomercials at 3 A.M. when Tyler is on call at the hospital. I cry during the testimonials, when the men talk about how different they were before they lost their hair. How confident they were, how happy they were, successful they were. I understand. When they get their new hair, they seem like they are really existing again, not just wearing hairpieces. I almost order that spray paint stuff that they sell for bald spots on another network. Almost.
When I get to L.A. on assignment (to convince a woman who left her husband and daughters to marry a convicted killer in jail, to tell her story) I panic because it seems harder to be a balding woman in L.A. where there is so much gorgeous hair (and breasts). No one can see my one boob in L.A., but my balding head is obvious. Being a bald man in L.A. is sexy, but being a bald woman is different. Someone must be looking out for me, though, because I get to fly first class. Dr. O insisted because she said the air is much purer up front and all the recycled air could make me sick because my immune system is so compromised. It is really embarrassing to explain my situation to ABC Corporate Travel and I even have to get a doctor’s note.
When I am in L.A., all I see is hair, most of it blonde. The camerawoman I’m working with finally asks me if I’m okay. I can’t help but notice her beautiful blonde shoulder-length hair. “Oh, I’m going through chemo and I don’t want to wear a wig.”
She is so sweet and concerned and asks why I’m not wearing a wig. I am not sure why until I’m at the airport coming back to New York I see a young man with one leg. He has a metal rod for the other. I know about the rod because he is wearing a pair of jeans and he has deliberately cut one of the pant legs short. I understand why he is showing it and maybe I understand my decision to show my balding head more. I want people to know that I am suffering and how invisible I feel.
But I am not invisible in Dr. O’s office because I look too young. This is not the kind of getting noticed I am craving. When a nurse says “Mrs. Lucas” during one of my consultations with doctors everyone expects my mother to be the patient. She is in her fifties like most of the breast cancer patients. One patient makes a point of telling me in great detail one day that my case is a tragedy.
“I thought what was happening to me was cruel. And then I saw you. How old are you? Twenty-something? Unbelievable tragedy. At my age I guess I expected this, but
People notice me on the street and then quickly lower their eyes. But they look up again. They are rubbernecking and I am the car wreck. They must wonder what is wrong with me and I think that is good. I want them to notice what breast cancer has done to me. I think about the other things that I had tried to cover up, like zits in high school. I want this flaw to get noticed.
I miss my ponytail most. It used to be a my-hair-is-such-a-mess-I-will-just-pull-it-back ponytail. Now, a ponytail seems like such a luxury. So much hair that it needs to be tied back? I can’t remember that. A ponytail seems like such a trophy of health and so carefree, and will I ever have a ponytail again just wagging back and forth like a happy dog’s tail?
Shampoo commercials seem to always be on. I watch and drool: the one where the woman flips her hair in slow motion and then they kind of freeze when she flips her hair back. That extended moment of hair glory is too much. It is hair porno. Way too hard core, nothing subtle about these commercials.
I start watching Hair Club for Men infomercials at 3 A.M. when Tyler is on call at the hospital. I cry during the testimonials, when the men talk about how different they were before they lost their hair. How confident they were, how happy they were, successful they were. I understand. When they get their new hair, they seem like they are really existing again, not just wearing hairpieces. I almost order that spray paint stuff that they sell for bald spots on another network. Almost.
When I get to L.A. on assignment (to convince a woman who left her husband and daughters to marry a convicted killer in jail, to tell her story) I panic because it seems harder to be a balding woman in L.A. where there is so much gorgeous hair (and breasts). No one can see my one boob in L.A., but my balding head is obvious. Being a bald man in L.A. is sexy, but being a bald woman is different. Someone must be looking out for me, though, because I get to fly first class. Dr. O insisted because she said the air is much purer up front and all the recycled air could make me sick because my immune system is so compromised. It is really embarrassing to explain my situation to ABC Corporate Travel and I even have to get a doctor’s note.
When I am in L.A., all I see is hair, most of it blonde. The camerawoman I’m working with finally asks me if I’m okay. I can’t help but notice her beautiful blonde shoulder-length hair. “Oh, I’m going through chemo and I don’t want to wear a wig.”
She is so sweet and concerned and asks why I’m not wearing a wig. I am not sure why until I’m at the airport coming back to New York I see a young man with one leg. He has a metal rod for the other. I know about the rod because he is wearing a pair of jeans and he has deliberately cut one of the pant legs short. I understand why he is showing it and maybe I understand my decision to show my balding head more. I want people to know that I am suffering and how invisible I feel.
But I am not invisible in Dr. O’s office because I look too young. This is not the kind of getting noticed I am craving. When a nurse says “Mrs. Lucas” during one of my consultations with doctors everyone expects my mother to be the patient. She is in her fifties like most of the breast cancer patients. One patient makes a point of telling me in great detail one day that my case is a tragedy.
“I thought what was happening to me was cruel. And then I saw you. How old are you? Twenty-something? Unbelievable tragedy. At my age I guess I expected this, but
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