Hair Envy

I’ve been having a problem with my hair lately. Or rather, the lack thereof. Those of you who have known me awhile know that I haven’t worn my hair long since my twenties. However, lately I find myself terribly envious of women that I see in television ads with long, flowing hair. After confessing this to my husband, I realized that it isn’t their hair that I’m envious of, but what it represents, which is good health. Peach fuzz, however, is the unhappy symbol of chemo and sickness. Halle Berry might look good with her head buzz cut, but Halle Berry I ain’t.

I am really struggling with this very superficial and unimportant issue, and it surprises me so much. I should be nothing but grateful that I got through a stem cell transplant with very few issues. I should be more worried about my bone marrow biopsy at the end of the month, but all I can think about is my hair. My appearance makes me sad. But of course, hair is only a symbol after all, and that is the issue. I’m not what I used to be, and I’m not a person who doesn’t give their health a second thought. In fact, I’m a peach fuzz princess who is dealing with reality every time I look in the mirror. So I may be reacting to the superficial, but the issue goes very deep. Mortality is really the issue.

But whenever I get like this, all I have to do is watch the evening news and all the misery in the world to get my perspective back. My life has been privileged compared to so many others, and I remind myself of this when I survey my very white scalp. In the meantime, I’ve got my Nancy Pelosi wig to wear when I don’t want to feel pitied, or at least scrutinized, in the supermarket, and I’m taking my B vitamins. Life goes on, thanks to God, and my hair will grow again.
Fay