I think everyone knows that one of the most common side effects of chemotherapy is hair loss. But knowing something is going to happen and actually experiencing it are two very different things.
I was walking past Rochester Cathedral earlier this week when I saw a little boy, probably about four or five years old, with his parents and grandparents. He was quite pale, had a tube in his nose, and the unmistakable “cancer crop”. He was a happy little chap, enjoying a day out with his family, but my heart went out to him all the same.
Today is First Chemo +17, and mine has started to fall out – in great clumpy lumps…
I have heard from friends who have been through cancer themselves, or who have supported a partner through it, describe the strange moment when the sofa, bed, or shower suddenly seemed to have been taken over by a scruffy Persian cat.
Shortly after my first chemo, I decided to get my hair cut very short. My lovely hairdresser saw me at 7am and took the clippers to me, giving me what is known as a No. 4. I was hoping I would look like the character Ellen Ripley, played by the beautiful Sigourney Weaver, in the 1992 science fiction film Alien 3.
It’s not the greatest film, and Ripley’s character – who survived the previous two Alien films – finds herself facing yet another encounter with the unfriendly alien species. (Plot spoiler: it doesn’t end well!…
Sadly, I don’t think I quite achieved the Ripley look. More “slightly worried pensioner who has accidentally joined the army”, perhaps?
I was offered the option of cold-capping, but decided against it. I was told it only works for around 50% of people who try it, and even those who are successful may still lose up to 60% of their hair.
The technique involves wearing a very tight rubber cap with freezing liquid running through it, with a special cap over the top. The idea is to reduce blood flow to the scalp and, hopefully, reduce the effect of the chemotherapy drugs on the hair follicles.
The cap has to be worn for at least half an hour before the infusion and for an hour afterwards. Many people experience what is rather aptly described as an “ice-cream headache” whilst cold-capping.
I did discuss this with my nurse beforehand and, on reflection, decided I would go without. The thought of sitting through four and a half hours of chemotherapy with an ice-cream headache wasn’t quite the treatment add-on I was looking for.
My local Wisdom Hospice charity shop is currently selling scarves for just £2 each, so I bought five a few weeks ago and have been practising tying them into turban-style wraps. I don’t think they look too bad!
I bought a few more yesterday because I liked the colours, but if I decide I don’t like them once they’ve been washed and tried out, I can simply put them back into the charity shop for them to sell to someone else.
It’s win/win – they get another sale, and I get to try out some new styles!
There are a lot of websites out there selling headwear for cancer patients, from simple jersey beanies to flamboyant turbans for special occasions. All of these are considerably more expensive than a £2 scarf from a charity shop.
There is also the option of wigs. I can arrange an appointment to be measured for an NHS wig by the Orthotics Department at my hospital. So far, I have decided against it because, to be honest, I don’t think many of them look particularly realistic. If I do change my mind, I think I might go for something completely different – perhaps bright pink or another colour that makes a statement!
I also have a memory of my mother. She had a thick head of dark, wavy hair, but at some point she had a bad reaction to medication she was taking for her schizophrenia, which resulted in alopecia.
I still remember seeing her sitting in front of a mirror, in tears, with a hairbrush covered in her hair. She did buy a wig, but it was a blonde pageboy style, and I don’t think she ever actually wore it.
Perhaps it’s not surprising, then, that losing my own hair has stirred up more emotions than I expected.
Of course, my mind also goes to Roald Dahl’s wonderful novel The Witches. The evil witches look like ordinary women, but underneath their wigs they are bald – and those wigs give them dreadful itchy rashes. They also have square-ended, toeless feet hidden inside sensible shoes (and, as a lover of Dr Martens, I’m not entirely sure I agree that sensible shoes are suspicious!).
They have changing-colour pupils, blue spit, and claws instead of fingernails, all carefully concealed beneath gloves.
I’m not for a moment suggesting that my current hair situation is going to turn me into a Roald Dahl villain – although I may need to keep an eye out for any suspiciously itchy wigs…
This afternoon, though, I have to admit I’m feeling quite low and teary about my very short hair disappearing altogether. I know it’s temporary. I know it will grow back. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t emotional.
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