I still carry my hairbrush in my purse.

I’ve been bald since Christmas day, yet I just can’t seem to let go of that fucking brush. It’s not even a nice one. It’s one of those little plastic freebies you get in your Clinique goody bag when you spend $385 on mascara or whatever.

I suppose having that stupid little brush (with a few straggling blonde hairs that I never got around to cleaning out) is a reminder of the life I had pre-cancer. My “normal” life. The one where I complained more often than not about “bad hair days” and clumpy mascara (when I wore it, which was was not often). The life when I pushed myself past those 10,000 steps every day and had no hesitation about eating raw seafood, unpasteurized cheese and Mexican street food. The one where I planned ahead, be it that afternoon, next week or next fall.  That normal.

My, and by default, our, normal is very, very different now.

This post, however, isn’t about that whole different life. This post is meant to be a little road map for anybody who might be curious about the not-so-life-altering changes I’ve experienced lately.

So, in the spirit of enlightenment, or maybe just because I want to share some interesting, and unexpected little tidbits about what happens during chemotherapy, I’m going to use this post to describe some of the more, shall we say, physical (and hopefully temporary) changes going on here.  Again, bits of this may be TMI, and, if that’s the case, move on.  My feelings won’t be hurt.

My first foray into the follicle foibles occurred in the food court bathroom of our local shopping center.  Finishing up my business, I glanced at the used tp before depositing it in the trash can beside the toilet. (In Mexico, as on our boat, used paper goes in the can, not the toilet.) To my surprise, I had unexpectedly shed a considerable amount of netherhairs right then, right there. No advance warnings. Nada.

I found this hysterically funny, and couldn’t wait to get back to the Tasty Tacos and More! to share the news with Jeff.

Although I had received only had one chemotherapy treatment, I was shedding like a Shetland at the first sign of Spring.  This marked the beginning of what I’ll refer to as The Great Shed. Within two weeks, I caved to the discomfort of the noggin nodules and furry pillowcases, and, in a convoluted, and very painful experiment, bid fare-thee-well to my mane.  Fortunately, I have a decent-shaped cranium, albeit with a little dent-thingy that traverses the the front of my skull. Jeff has begun referring to me as his “little beluga.”  I’m assuming this is an affectionate moniker. 

I’m not exactly sure when my leg and underarm hair made their great escape. I’ve really never paid them much mind, frankly. As a blonde hippie-chick, I didn’t even start really shaving until my late 20’s, and ever since then have maintained a roughly every three-week or so schedule. I just never really felt the need.

Although, in writing this, one particular incident comes to mind. In junior high school, when all my girlfriends were just budding a bust and gaining growth of body hair, they would sit around the vinyl booth seats at the local diner, comparing experiences of what was the best shaver, deodorant, and beginner bra-brands. Not to be denied my share of the sisterhood of the developing divas, I came home from school and matter-of-factly informed Mom I was going to shave my legs. I don’t remember why, but she opposed, so I promptly purchased (or, maybe at that time actually acquired a five-finger discount) on a waxing kit from the local Five and Dime. That didn’t go so well, and I was left  with  big clumps of gooey wax,  interspersed with bits of stringy cheesecloth, stuck tight to my leg hairs. When Mom saw the mess, she caved, and let me shave (just this once) to  clear my legs of the debris. After that, I lost all interest in the whole process of hair removal.

My forearm hair was next to vacate. This one I did notice. I used to have marvelous, long, white-blonde silky arm hair. The kind where people wanted to do that stupid thing where they spit in their hand, bend your elbow and rub your arm hair real fast in circles until it is tangled up in knots, and to get it un-tangled you basically have to rip your arm open? No? Maybe that was a Kentucky thing. Anyway, can’t do that anymore. Ha ha.

The eyebrows have significantly lightened and thinned, and the lashes are hanging on for dear life, lending a sort-of alien-ish look to my face. (Some man at the marina, and I’m not lying, asked me if I was “one of those Trekkie-types”).  I expect them to go soon, but just in case, I recently bought a new mascara. A girl can always hope.

Nose hair? Gone– leading to a constant drip. Kleenex is mandatory. Always.

Ear hair? Gone. This can lead to vertigo, Fun!

And I’ve heard that chemo can also make your toenails fall out. Now that will really suck. One, because I live in Mexico where flip-flops are my go-to shoes. And two, I lost both my big toenails this summer (Blacktoenail) from all that glorious hiking Jeff and I did in Canada and the Eastern US.   So now that they are finally long enough to trim, they are deserting me again. I think a red sharpie may be a future purchase. 

Anyway, such is life here and now in Chemo-land. So many things change, yet some things will remain the same.

Like that fucking hairbrush. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.