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The day I lost my locks

Oct 10, 2013
Kate Deller-Evans, pictured this week. Photo: Nat Rogers/InDaily

Kate Deller-Evans, pictured this week. Photo: Nat Rogers/InDaily

Day 17 has arrived. Bookmarked in my diary, this is the day my oncologist said my hair would fall out. And he’s right.

Luckily my girlfriend was once a hairdresser.

First up, she gives my 12-year-old son a buzz cut, and we can’t help ourselves running our hands over his shorn skull that now looks and feels like golden velvet.

Then, my husband succumbs to having his leonine mane (he is a poet) clipped. He’s in shock, but he was this morning, too, when he saw hanks of my hair sliding off in the shower.

I’ll be next. Although she worked in a hospital salon years ago, I suspect Heather will find it challenging with my hair that tugs out as easily as tufting fairy-floss from a showbag.

Yesterday, nerve-racked on the university campus where I work, I was convinced my hair flew off in the slightest breeze, leaving a trail behind me as I scurried between buildings. For the past couple of days, I’ve worn colourful headbands and hairclips, intended as visual segues for next week, when I will be wearing a wig.

Heather helped me choose my personal peruke the day after my first infusion. Not every woman with breast cancer will lose her hair, but from the moment of my diagnosis, my surgeon left me in no doubt. Three aggressive tumours would mean I’d be undergoing the full gamut of treatment: mastectomy, chemotherapy and, early next year, five weeks of daily radiotherapy.

I am fortunate to enjoy the company of colleagues who are supportive. Before I returned to work following surgery (being on a contract, I didn’t have much sick leave), my boss suggested he send out an email from me. I constructed a missive that flagged the changes I would be facing. Far better to be upfront and out there, I thought, rather than overhear whispered asides. People are shocked by cancer, probably afraid, and it produces odd comments. Word bullets can shoot blind from stray mouths, but by and large I feel I’ve dodged any from my workmates. I’m grateful the dean helped open that line of communication. It’s made the return to workplace easier, I think.

Managing my transition to appearing in a wig is as much for their sakes as to prevent dopey declarations about my new look. “Gee, that’s a great hairstyle!” My $800 wig is curlier than my erstwhile wavy hair, and though highlighted with ash, it is brassier than my natural (at my age threaded with grey) blonde.

After learning more about cosmetics at the LGFB (Look Good Feel Better) workshop at the Royal Adelaide Hospital, there was the opportunity to check out wig types. What an array! Actors wear wigs and television presenters wear wigs – performers of all sorts, let alone those who wear wigs for health or religious purposes. I feel excited for the chance to act out. Live it up a little.

Heather brushes off my husband and his face emerges where we all exclaim over his sudden resemblance to his younger brother. It’s been mid-semester break at university, so he’s sporting the start of a beard. It’s more salt than pepper this year, and I think perhaps that coverage of facial hair will ease the shock en brosse of his head. But all four lads in the family are having brutal trims in my honour, as the three girls will be hosting a Pink Ribbon breakfast fundraiser soon.

Finally, it’s my turn. No shearing; Heather is keen to shape some sort of style, for me to enjoy for a few days at least. I suspect it’s a forlorn hope. She leaves my fringe till last. “You’ve been wanting to try short for ages, haven’t you?” She is upbeat, “Short really suits you!”

“It’s cold!” I cry, recalling the advice of Barb from the Cancer Council. “Cover up,” she had said when I’d discussed my impending baldness. “Your head is a major site of heat loss.”

Aside from my wig, I’ve purchased a sleepwear cap (soft jersey cotton), a swirly patterned turban (probably too orange and brown, but the choices in the store were limited), and a few scarves I don’t yet know how to tie. Bless Heather, who bought me a soft black and white frilled cap, which sound appalling, but looks quite Great Gatsby.

Later in the afternoon, I brave a run to Coles. When the checkout lass asks what I’ve been up to, I hesitate. “Er, had an interesting time,” I manage. She doesn’t let it drop. I deliberate. Yes, she should cope. “My hair came off, this is the first time I’m out wearing a wig.”

“No way,” she says, bright-eyed. “I had no idea. It looks real!”

That’s a good start, I think. The next day I drop off lasagnes I’ve made for a friend’s upcoming birthday bash (with poison in your veins, you don’t want to be baking), and I’m met with more positive comments, taking into account the teen’s question as to whether it’s like in Roald Dahl, “You know, how the Witches take off their wigs to scratch their scalps, any time they can?”

“Yup, that’s right,” I admit. “The minute I step in the house, off it comes.” And I explain to her parents: “Or for cooking. I’m told it’s expensive replacing a melted fringe.”

Thank goodness for the long weekend, which gave me an extra day to learn to hold my head up high. There’s the reduced week ahead to work, second cycle of chemo, to then start thinking of helping the girls’ pink breakfast preparation. In this Breast Cancer Awareness Month, you might like to help, too.

More information about the Pink Ribbon Breakfasts can be found on the Cancer Council website.

Kate Deller-Evans is a lecturer at Flinders University. She is also a reviewer for InDaily’s Arts & Culture section.

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