cut hair

The hair is cut. I’d been freaking out about it for the last couple of months, but it finally happened yesterday.

The last two weeks had been so full on, that even the idea of dealing with a hair cut was too much.

I’d completed one cycle of fertility treatment; injecting myself every morning between 7am-9am with gonal-f and menopur; and taking letrozole to manage the oestrogen levels. I was at the hospital every other day for checks. I was all over the place; angry one minute, and crying the next. I now understand why people find the whole process tough. Your emotions just take a battering!

The surgery was also done. I knew Katy would make the call where needed; so when I woke up from general anaesthetic, I was accepting of the nipple no longer being there.

Injections. Surgeries. Back to back hospital visits. When life throws you all these things in a space of two weeks, the word resilience springs to mind. And that is exactly how I felt; until I had to think about getting my hair cut.

When all this madness started, the topic of hair took on a life of its own. My friends and I had numerous discussions on what to do. A Pinterest board was created. Pixie cut? Sure! Crazy colour? Of course! Mohawk? Hell yeah! It was fun. If there was ever a time to get an edgy cut, it was now. I was going to rock a look that I didn’t have the guts to do before.

Every week, I had an appointment booked with Lucy. I’d get a reminder two days before from the hairdressers. And without fail, every day before the appointment, I would reschedule for the following week. I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t even ready for just getting a tidy up. I just wanted to keep hold of the mane! This continued for a few months.

My hair was long. A good number of inches passed my shoulders. Super messy, and unbearably thick. It was part of my identity. Everyone knew me for my hair. My mane. The volume; the speed it grows. Over the last few months, I’d let it grow so it was in a high bun for the most part. I was lazy with it. I made a point of growing it, because I knew there was a high chance it would thin out or fall out during chemo. My hair was my last piece of my security blanket.

Yesterday, I bit the bullet, and headed to see Lucy.

I cried in the chair, while I relayed the details to her. We went through different options. She told me of other clients she had cut for that were going through cold cap. She could work with the thinning areas once chemo started; and restyle to suit me. She made me laugh given the situation; and before I knew it, we were done.

Short hair dont care
So now, here I am. Five months after my last cut, and one step closer to chemo starting. And I couldn’t be more ready!