This week I went, reluctantly, to buy a wig. My hair piece is delayed (and I have slight reservations, even cold feet about that one, but that’s another story) and I didn’t want to get caught out over Christmas as my head is just hideous. Why I haven’t buzzed it off by now is beyond me, but I haven’t. This is largely how my life is right now: wake up in the night, sleep cap has come loose, realise I have a face full of hair, go back to sleep. Morning – wake up, sweep hair from pillow onto floor. Hoover floor with vacuum cleaner that is permanently next to the bed. Try not to look in mirror. Go downstairs, face boyfriend for daily breakfast feeling like an idiot wearing this stupid sodding cap. Boyfriend goes to work. Take cap off, spend 20 minutes with head over toilet shedding and pulling hair into bowl (it’s impossible not to do, like peeling sunburnt, flaky skin), get in shower. Wet what is left of hair (no washing or rubbing, hurts too much). Get out of shower, pull hair out of plug hole. Attempt to run hair dryer over matted mess (again, no actual touching properly). Hoover again, the hair that’s fallen out from hairdrying. Pull what looks like a popsock on head. Put on wig. Spend 10 minutes trying to get on, without being cock-eyed. Itch head through wig for another 10 mins. Pencil in eyebrows, put foundation and blush on steroid moon face (good for plumping out wrinkles though, every cloud). Very, very gently put mascara on. Notice lashes in brush and slightly weird look to upper lidline. Think to self: “Christ, I’m spending Christmas with boy wonder’s family for the first time, I’d better start getting festive and jolly.” Feel vulnerable and wobbly. Leave house (if not completely floored from chemo – this time round, I slept for three days virtually and barely left the house without feeling exhausted, very unlike me), go to work, attempt to focus and engage and be normal.
I don’t think I need to say more, this hair falling out thing is dreadful, way worse than I imagined it would be, and that thought was bad enough. I KNEW I wasn’t going to handle this, that’s why I had doubts about this drug in the first place. But I didn’t have a choice, there really wasn’t an alternative. So I suppose I just have to crack on. Apart from the hair, Tax is no picnic. AT ALL. No sickness, just sheer exhaustion, aches and twinges and a confused realisation that you just feel SHIT. Which I hope means it’s working. And I must keep remembering there is the bigger picture to think about, even though the hair thing is horrific.
Merry Christmas everyone x