Before The Thing happened to me, I assumed that the minute you started to have chemo, suddenly all your hair fell off. This is THE BIG THING that everyone knows about cancer - and how you can tell if someone has it - they have no hair. Obviously there are exceptions to this rule - lots of 44 year old men without The Thing have no hair - but generally baldness (especially on a woman or child) stamps "sick person" across their forehead. And then people start saying words like "Journey" and "How ARE you" a lot.
I still have hair, even in places I don't want it.
The weird thing is that while I absolutely know it is going to fall out (in a week or two), I continue to pretend to myself that it isn't - because, genuinely, I think that will be the single worst thing, mentally, about this whole bullshit. Hair is pretty much the only thing you can really change about your physical appearance without surgery (OK, and dieting/exercise, given) - and as such, it defines how you want others to see you.
Clearly, I have always wanted people to see me as a crazy person with frizzy Cornwall hair, who makes no effort at all about her appearance - but you know what I mean. I guess the thing is that I have always known that if I put a bit of effort into a blow-dry, and splash some cash on highlights, I can make it look halfway decent and that I can scrub up OK. I am vain and I admit it.
As a result, I find it almost impossible to believe that I am soon going to be Duncan Goodhew/George Dawes/Yul Brunner style bald. I can't get my head round the practicalities of baldness (wigs or scarves? On or off in bed? God - false eyelashes?) and it seems surreal to think about it. I practice with scarves and look hideous - and tell myself to get used to it.
I also carry on half believing that I am going to be the 1% who only experiences partial hair loss, whilst telling myself that I know I'm being ridiculous, and that I am going to have to grow up and face facts. God - it's so boring to argue with yourself.
So I plan a couple of wig finding sessions, one with Heavenly H for a serious wig (for formal occasions) and one with the Lorna Doone, who I suspect of secretly planning to turn me into a Ginger, for a fun one or two.
***********
Wig day arrives and I head off to meet HH at Lucky Plaza, where there are two proper wig shops. In Singapore, most of the shopping malls are like Westfield - modern, full of high end designer/high street shops, packed with people of all nationalities, shopping with a purpose that frankly both escapes and frightens me. In Orchard Road alone there are 20+ of these malls - all the size of Westfield and connecting through underground tunnels which are also full of shops.
Lucky Plaza is not like that.
It is one of the much older original Singaporean malls - full of little Mom and Pop stores and $5 watches. The clientele is VERY local, and on a Sunday is it packed to the rafters with Phillipina maids - two floors are dedicated entirely to random Phillipino foodstuffs...... Predictably, I love it there.
I get a text from HH saying she's delayed, so I go to the first shop and check it out. This is going to be harder than I was anticipating - Asian wigs come in black, platinum or grey (discarding, for the moment, the fluo pink and purple). Not a shade of mouse - sorry, "eagle" - to be seen. I decide to push on and settle into the hairdressers chair, at which point she rather rudely asks me which of my two colours I would like to match. I should add here that I am currently sporting the duracell battery look - there is simply no point in spending any money on doing my roots, so they are about 4 inches long now............
I settle on the blonde option, and she immediately puts a beige stocking on my head and tucks all my hair into it. This is NOT a good look. a) I am bald and this confirms it's not a look I should aspire towards b) it looks as though I am about to rob a bank.
Things don't improve much pulls when she pulls out Jan Leemings hair, then Dolly Partons (tempting....) and explains that all the rest are darker. So I agree to try on some darker ones and immediately get Justin Hawkins/Morticia Addams. Not Halle Berry then. Short dark ones are equally hideous - so feeling a bit flat, I go downstairs to try shop number 2. Thankfully HH says she'll be there in 5 mins...
Same deal in shop 2 - although the bank robber look is in a fetching fishnet this time which makes me feel and look Iike a drag queen. I select a few wigs to try on and they line up on their stands like an audience.
HH arrives and immediately dismisses "the audience" as being totally wrong. Somehow she gets Madame to open a drawer that wasn't offered to me and yea! Shades of non-platinum blonde hair poke out! Still nothing is right (could be something to do with the fact that I have no make-up on and am sitting under a fluorescent light - the problem might be with the face, not the hair?).
Suddenly Madame produces Anthea Turners hair - same colour, same rather jaunty flicky bits at the back - and it works! It actually suits me and is fun. It needs a bit of a trim but it's fine. So we buy it and go and have a coffee to celebrate.
*****************
We have all tried Anthea on now - and I look the best in her. This is gratifying on many levels (imagine if she suited J better than she suited me) and everyone agrees that won't be embarrassing to see me in her. So she goes on her stand, ready for a trim when the time comes. I feel so much better that she is there - I now know that I will only be bald now out of choice - and that is a huge huge relief.
So I call Lorna Doone (ha, foiled with the redhead plan) and we decide to go and have a pissy lunch on the river instead.
As zen-like and serene as ever, J xx
No comments:
Post a Comment