Bad Hair Day
Six years ago to the day was the first time my hair fell out.
I had started chemo a couple of weeks before, so I knew it was coming. I even knew when. The social worker who ran the support group I'd been attending had told me exactly, based on the drugs I was being given. Sixteen days.
I woke up on Day 16, and there was hair on my pillow. Not a hair. Hair. Strands and strands of it.
Then I took a shower, and more came out in my hands.
Zach made the call.
He had recently begun to get his hair cut by someone new, someone recommended by a friend. During his last visit, Zach had told this new someone that I was starting chemo and was going to want to have my hair buzzed as soon as it began to come out. The new someone volunteered to do it for me.
So on that morning, Zach called the new someone—whose name is Dave—and asked if we could come in for a buzz.
That same morning, I went to my first-ever yoga class with a friend from work. It seemed like a good idea: might as well get as Zen as possible before letting a stranger lop off my locks. Plus, if I was going to look like a monk, it was probably wise to learn how to chant like one.
I enjoyed the class, if not the chanting, and headed out with my friend to a nearby Mexican restaurant for lunch. It was Cinco de Mayo, after all.
After lunch, on my way over to meet Zach, I stopped in a cool West Village shop and bought myself a cute little hat, the first in my collection. It was a red-and-white-checked little number, and I thought it had just the kind of jaunty look I'd need to compensate for all that lack of hair.
I headed down to the Lower East Side, to the salon where Dave worked at the time. Zach introduced us, and we got started. Dave's station was smack-dab in the middle of the place, so my shearing turned out to be a pretty public event. It was a Saturday afternoon on a gorgeous spring day, and there were plenty of people around.
Dave turned out to be kind and compassionate but also a lot of fun. He handled the situation—which could have been fraught and awkward—as naturally as could be. He was comfortable, so I was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one could be while sitting in the middle of a hip downtown salon, surrounded by strangers and preparing to be bald.
Maybe the chanting had helped after all.
Although my hair was relatively short at the time, it was still pretty thick and curly—thick and curly enough that Dave's electric clippers were just no match. He had buzzed about half of my head when the motor gave out.
I liked that my hair was putting up some kind of last-minute fight. After leaving a trail from our apartment to the yoga studio to the Mexican restaurant to the cool West Village shop to the hip downtown salon, I guess it tried to rally in the face of a direct attack.
Dave went and found a hardier set of clippers, and it wasn't much longer before I looked like a brand-new Marine recruit. Except that I didn't look old enough to enlist. In fact, I looked about 12. I think the jaunty new hat took me all the way up to 14.
Dave gave me a big hug and refused to take a penny for his efforts. (Zach and I have been devoted to him ever since.) I put on my new hat, and we walked out onto the street.
I can't remember where Zach had to be afterward, but I headed back to our apartment alone. On my way uptown, I stopped at an annual crafts fair I like to go to that just happened to be taking place that weekend. One of the first booths I passed was filled with dozens of hats, and I started trying a few on.
It felt strange to take off the jaunty hat so soon—I was still completely unaccustomed to the buzz cut—but I tried to be nonchalant about the whole thing. That's one of the things I love about the anonymity you can find in New York: I was able to try out my new near-baldness in the midst of a crowd, and nobody paid any attention to me at all. The universe seemed to be telling me that if I was OK with it, everyone else would be, too.
And then I decided to ask the hatmaker to help me choose a flattering style from among the many choices.
She took a long look at me and my buzz cut.
"Hmm," she said, trying but failing to find a diplomatic tone.
"Do you always wear your hair so short?"
I had started chemo a couple of weeks before, so I knew it was coming. I even knew when. The social worker who ran the support group I'd been attending had told me exactly, based on the drugs I was being given. Sixteen days.
I woke up on Day 16, and there was hair on my pillow. Not a hair. Hair. Strands and strands of it.
Then I took a shower, and more came out in my hands.
Zach made the call.
He had recently begun to get his hair cut by someone new, someone recommended by a friend. During his last visit, Zach had told this new someone that I was starting chemo and was going to want to have my hair buzzed as soon as it began to come out. The new someone volunteered to do it for me.
So on that morning, Zach called the new someone—whose name is Dave—and asked if we could come in for a buzz.
That same morning, I went to my first-ever yoga class with a friend from work. It seemed like a good idea: might as well get as Zen as possible before letting a stranger lop off my locks. Plus, if I was going to look like a monk, it was probably wise to learn how to chant like one.
I enjoyed the class, if not the chanting, and headed out with my friend to a nearby Mexican restaurant for lunch. It was Cinco de Mayo, after all.
After lunch, on my way over to meet Zach, I stopped in a cool West Village shop and bought myself a cute little hat, the first in my collection. It was a red-and-white-checked little number, and I thought it had just the kind of jaunty look I'd need to compensate for all that lack of hair.
I headed down to the Lower East Side, to the salon where Dave worked at the time. Zach introduced us, and we got started. Dave's station was smack-dab in the middle of the place, so my shearing turned out to be a pretty public event. It was a Saturday afternoon on a gorgeous spring day, and there were plenty of people around.
Dave turned out to be kind and compassionate but also a lot of fun. He handled the situation—which could have been fraught and awkward—as naturally as could be. He was comfortable, so I was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one could be while sitting in the middle of a hip downtown salon, surrounded by strangers and preparing to be bald.
Maybe the chanting had helped after all.
Although my hair was relatively short at the time, it was still pretty thick and curly—thick and curly enough that Dave's electric clippers were just no match. He had buzzed about half of my head when the motor gave out.
I liked that my hair was putting up some kind of last-minute fight. After leaving a trail from our apartment to the yoga studio to the Mexican restaurant to the cool West Village shop to the hip downtown salon, I guess it tried to rally in the face of a direct attack.
Dave went and found a hardier set of clippers, and it wasn't much longer before I looked like a brand-new Marine recruit. Except that I didn't look old enough to enlist. In fact, I looked about 12. I think the jaunty new hat took me all the way up to 14.
Dave gave me a big hug and refused to take a penny for his efforts. (Zach and I have been devoted to him ever since.) I put on my new hat, and we walked out onto the street.
I can't remember where Zach had to be afterward, but I headed back to our apartment alone. On my way uptown, I stopped at an annual crafts fair I like to go to that just happened to be taking place that weekend. One of the first booths I passed was filled with dozens of hats, and I started trying a few on.
It felt strange to take off the jaunty hat so soon—I was still completely unaccustomed to the buzz cut—but I tried to be nonchalant about the whole thing. That's one of the things I love about the anonymity you can find in New York: I was able to try out my new near-baldness in the midst of a crowd, and nobody paid any attention to me at all. The universe seemed to be telling me that if I was OK with it, everyone else would be, too.
And then I decided to ask the hatmaker to help me choose a flattering style from among the many choices.
She took a long look at me and my buzz cut.
"Hmm," she said, trying but failing to find a diplomatic tone.
"Do you always wear your hair so short?"
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:28 PM
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