The other woman who lives in my house

A year ago.

Now.

There’s a person named Audrey in my house. Audrey is a medium brown. sort of a bob made from the finest synthetic human hair to come out of what the oddly stern sales lady explained was “the Orient.” Audrey sits in a bag. I’m not even really sure where she is anymore.

Audrey is what the prescription from my oncologist referred to as a “cranial prosthesis” which is a fancy name for a wig.

I acquired Audrey after trying on every sample in the store, envisioning that she would be trotted out for work and special occasions (because when you’re going through chemo, your social calendar is packed). But once I actually started to lose my hair, I lost interest in her. I hate that I’ve lost my hair, but Audrey also doesn’t appeal to me, either.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had long, straight hair that went halfway down my back. It’s been some variation of this since 8th grade. It was easy to take care of, was never trendy but not totally out of style, and I didn’t see a need to change it. Which is to say I never worked up the nerve. On a few occasions, I came close. Around 2008, I had it cut to just below my shoulders and got bangs, but it didn’t last. My long hair was part of my identity. It felt almost like armor protecting me from the rest of the world. And in a weird way, it may have been why I had a hard time seeing myself as someone with cancer. When you see photos of breast cancer survivors, they almost always have short hair. Kind of leaves the impression that breast cancer happens to women with sporty hair cuts.

My hair and I arrive at the salon for our appointment.

Then I heard my diagnosis, and I also learned early on that the chemo I would need would cause hair loss. I realized having almost two feet of hair come off in the shower would be messy and gross and probably traumatic. I also encountered some women going through chemo who seemed to be holding on to every long strand with desperation. That seemed like more of a bummer than taking it into my own hands. Cutting it, rather than letting it fall out, also meant I could donate it to Wigs for Kids, and I figured someone could at least get something good out of this.

I made a salon appointment, brought a friend and drank some top shelf margaritas after. Before leaving for my appointment, I took an extra long shower. I had just found my favorite pricey mint shampoo super cheap on clearance (the irony, I know). I went through three washings before I applied conditioner twice. I luxuriated on the sensation of my hair in my hands and on my back, knowing it could be years before I felt it again. If ever.

That afternoon, the stylist took more and more of my hair away, and my friend told me with relief that I had a nicely shaped head, which was a concern that hadn’t even occurred to me to worry about.

 

When we settled in at a yuppie Mexican place, I felt like I wasn’t myself. I wanted to explain to the server that she wasn’t serving the regular me, she was serving a different version of me. It felt odd that people were interacting with this strange short-haired person. Talking to her like normal. My new look received rave reviews, but I felt like I had to keep explaining to people that this was only temporary. It wasn’t a legit short haircut. It was just a circumstance that I encountered. And I knew I would be losing a lot more. I just wanted a bit of a resting place before it all came off.

 

Game face. About to get it all buzzed off. I think not having much hair makes my nose look bigger.

The night before my second chemo treatment, it started coming out in chunks so after we left the GBWTWCCC (Giant Building with the World Class Cancer Center), I had my husband drive to the nearest cheapo walk-in hair cut place and asked for the Sinead O’Connor Special. They were very nice and didn’t charge me.

Over the next few days, I resisted the urge to sing soulfully while wearing a black turtleneck.

This process proved to be a good strategy for me. My buzz cut thinned out quickly without being messy. I do find myself staring at other people’s hair in a way I never did before. I notice the way the light plays on the strands or how it tussles in a breeze. At first, I found myself running my

hands through where my hair used to be, or tossing my head. The other day, I tried to put my hair into a pony tail.

But despite this, I haven’t seen much of a purpose to Audrey. I’ve cultivated what Jim describes as the Rhoda look: scarves, hats, earrings, sunglasses. I don’t really see a need to put on hair and pretend it’s mine. Mostly, I want to keep my head warm. With all the hot

flashes and temperature changes, Audrey would be a lot of trouble. It’s much easier to take off a hat and put it on.

So Audrey sits. In a bag. Somewhere.

And in some ways, it feels like there’s yet another woman who lives in my house who isn’t Audrey and isn’t the girl with long hair. If my self from a year ago passed me on the street, I wouldn’t recognize my current self. When I told this to a friend the other day, she reminded me “well, you are yourself, and this is what you look like right now.” And she’s right.

I’m still me, but I’m not the same me that I was a year ago and it’s not (just) because of my hair. I’ll never be that girl in the picture on the left again. I don’t know who I’ll be. I won’t be Audrey. That’s for sure.