The haircut.

Well, it's gone. This weekend, with the help of Joe and my mom - and a box of tissues - we cut over 17 inches of hair off my head, and then shaved the rest down to about a half inch.

On the morning of my first chemo infusion, my doctor advised me to cut my hair within the next two weeks. "By the time you come in for your second round, it'll be coming out by the handful." I mean, woof. Shaving my head was absolutely awful, but I couldn't imagine seeing my hair fall out in clumps on its own. So we cut it before that could happen. For me, it wasn't so much about taking control of the situation - if I've learned anything the past year and a half, it's how little control I have of the big things in life. It was more about giving myself an opportunity to mourn the loss of my hair, and more importantly some time to adjust. Maybe that is taking control. But it didn't feel like it. I've never felt more out of control of my own life than I do right now.

I went back and forth between having Joe cut it or having a professional come to our home. In the end, I felt most comfortable having Joe and my mom do it. I knew I would be a complete mess during and afterward, so keeping it as intimate as possible was the best option for me.

***

The mane event kicked off Friday afternoon with a black tie farewell party. The mood around here was still light, happy even. Or as light and happy as it can be when you have cancer. I curled my hair, threw on a dress, and Joe even wore his wedding tux for the occasion. I had my first dirty martini in over a year. Blue cheese stuffed olives. It was delicious. We took pictures together; I took a LOT of selfies; we laughed with friends via FaceTime. But after Sadie went to bed for the night, reality sunk in (and so did the martini) and I cried my eyes out on the couch. Dreading the next day when we would cut my hair.

***

On Saturday, February 13, 2021, my mom started the process, dividing my hair into eight long ponytail braids. They would need to cut my hair before shaving so it wouldn't rip out of my head. And even while she was doing this, it didn't feel real. It didn't feel like we were about to shave my head. It just felt like she was playing with my hair. Making me look like Coolio. Just another Saturday.

When she was finished she asked me if I was ready, and it was then that reality hit for a second time. No, I'm not ready at all. So she sat and hugged me for a long time while I cried and mourned my hair one last time.

I sat on a chair in our bathroom and held Joe's hand while my mom started to cut. She hadn't even finished cutting the first ponytail and I started to sob. Every time she went to cut another one, I couldn't help but whimper Nooo. I cried out of sadness. I cried out of anger. I cried out of fear. I cried because I was losing something that was so much of my identity. Cancer had already robbed me of so much, and now it had taken my hair. My mom and Joe talked to me the whole time. They told me it was going to be ok, I was doing great, I was so brave. I didn't really believe anything they were saying, but I know I have never needed both of them more in my life.

After the ponytails were gone, my mom and Joe switched places. Joe would be the one to shave the rest of the hair down. I didn't dare look to my left and into the mirror, so I just stared straight ahead through my tears. I didn't know it until that moment, but I can't stand the sound of a razor. The buzzing sound made me shudder and the second I felt it on the back of my head, I cried even harder.

It only took a few minutes to shave the last of it. When it was over, I couldn't move. I couldn't look in the mirror. I finally showered to rinse off all of the hair and when I went to shampoo my head, I broke down all over again. There was hardly anything to shampoo. I hadn't even looked at myself yet but I felt hideous. I hated it. I hated everything.

Eventually I looked. The change was jarring. I had gone from having hair down to my middle/lower back to a half inch buzz cut. I felt a lot of things, but mostly sad. Embarrassed. Ugly. It was 7:00 at night, and I put my entire face of makeup back on because I thought it would make a difference. It did only slightly.

My saving grace was Sadie. Again. After the initial shock wore off, I held my baby up so she could inspect me. She was completely un-fazed. She smiled and nuzzled into me like she always does, and I felt a big wave of relief wash over me. She knew who her mama was, even with buzzed hair. She didn't seem to notice a difference at all. She still loved me just the same. And of course, so did her dad.

In that moment I realized the only person I actually had to worry about loving me the same was...myself. I'm not sure why it's so difficult to be kind to yourself, especially as a woman, but it's something I am constantly working on. I'll get there, I just need some time. Until then, hats. Hats and a few luxury scarves because I told myself I deserved them. If I have to be bald, I need to look as fabulous as possible while I'm doing it. Chanel and Christian Dior are on their way to my house for the first time ever. And probably the last time ever - but regardless, I am pretty excited. Cancer warrants Chanel.

***

The last few days, I've felt the lowest since this all started. I can hardly stand to look at myself in the mirror. I'm embarrassed every time my husband looks at me. I cry every time I shower. I only feel slightly normal when I'm wearing a stocking hat. I'm just really struggling with this right now. It sucks and it makes me incredibly sad. Does that make me incredibly vain? Maybe.

Yes. I know this is just one more step toward being cancer-free.

Yes. I know it will grow back.

Yes. I'm trying to be strong.

I know everyone means well when they tell me that I'm beautiful inside and out. That I'm beautiful with or without hair. (Thank you, by the way.) It's all easy to say. Hard to hear. And even harder to believe when you're the one who is actually losing their hair.

I'll get there. I just need some time. For now, I'm grateful for my own strong mama and husband who had to cut my hair. I don't know what it's like to watch your wife and daughter go through all of this, but I don't suppose it's a walk in the park. I'm grateful that I'm feeling almost back to normal. One week of almost-normal before we do it all over again. Chemo #2 next Monday - I'm coming for ya!