"Is your hair growing back yet?"
People have been asking me this for months, ever since that last chemotherapy session at the end of November.
If only. It takes ages for the poison to work its way out of the system. Three to five months, the VIP nurse reckoned when I asked her how long it would be before I'd have a bit of hair back.
The problem was, how would I know that I could safely stop shaving my head without looking like an autumn tree after a storm, rather bare but for a few hairs here and there? I've had a bit of stubble all through the treatment.
So I've kept a close eye on other regions, for clues. Almost overnight, right on the dot of my final radiotherapy treatment, I found that whilst my two remaining eyebrow hairs had finally given up the ghost, a new fuzziness was appearing underneath.
Not just eyebrows. Areas never seen in public have also started to fuzz over. Areas always seen in public, which I'd hoped the chemotherapy had stripped for good, are beginning to sprout. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to re-join the army of women fighting a battle with beards and moustaches.
Time, therefore, to see what my post-chemo hair is going to look like.
I had my last headshave two weeks ago and am now sporting an unflattering covering of grey stubble.
Let me tell you, this is not a good look. I've looked it up on the internet and found quite a few women who have posted a blow-by-blow pictorial account of their hair re-growth, so I was vaguely prepared. Apparently, it takes quite a long time for your hair to stop looking thin on top. I've heard that I might expect a different colour, or a different curliness.
It's rather disappointing that my stubble is as salt-and-pepper grey as ever. Not the lovely silver or pure white I'd hoped for.
Combine this with the thinning-on-top, and my current style is one rarely seen on women but more suited to the mature gentleman. It's worse than being bald, as far as I can see. At least baldness could (just could) be a fashion statement.
Let's hope that soon there will be enough of a covering to be able to pretend that I like it like this. Better still, enough for people to stop thinking I wonder if she's got cancer? and start thinking Lovely hairdo, it suits her. Or better still, passing me by and thinking nothing at all.
Just as well it's winter, and cold, so I can wear hats and more hats, even inside.
Which has the added advantage of keeping my hands off my head. Having a rather enticingly soft stubble is as bad as having a new gap in your mouth which you can't stop searching for with your tongue, just to check it's still there.
Yep. Just checked. Stubble, short on the sides, shorter on top. Still there. Still as short as it was this morning. And this lunch time. And this afternoon. Where's the magic wand when you need it?
People have been asking me this for months, ever since that last chemotherapy session at the end of November.
If only. It takes ages for the poison to work its way out of the system. Three to five months, the VIP nurse reckoned when I asked her how long it would be before I'd have a bit of hair back.
The problem was, how would I know that I could safely stop shaving my head without looking like an autumn tree after a storm, rather bare but for a few hairs here and there? I've had a bit of stubble all through the treatment.
So I've kept a close eye on other regions, for clues. Almost overnight, right on the dot of my final radiotherapy treatment, I found that whilst my two remaining eyebrow hairs had finally given up the ghost, a new fuzziness was appearing underneath.
Not just eyebrows. Areas never seen in public have also started to fuzz over. Areas always seen in public, which I'd hoped the chemotherapy had stripped for good, are beginning to sprout. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to re-join the army of women fighting a battle with beards and moustaches.
Time, therefore, to see what my post-chemo hair is going to look like.
I had my last headshave two weeks ago and am now sporting an unflattering covering of grey stubble.
Let me tell you, this is not a good look. I've looked it up on the internet and found quite a few women who have posted a blow-by-blow pictorial account of their hair re-growth, so I was vaguely prepared. Apparently, it takes quite a long time for your hair to stop looking thin on top. I've heard that I might expect a different colour, or a different curliness.
It's rather disappointing that my stubble is as salt-and-pepper grey as ever. Not the lovely silver or pure white I'd hoped for.
Combine this with the thinning-on-top, and my current style is one rarely seen on women but more suited to the mature gentleman. It's worse than being bald, as far as I can see. At least baldness could (just could) be a fashion statement.
Let's hope that soon there will be enough of a covering to be able to pretend that I like it like this. Better still, enough for people to stop thinking I wonder if she's got cancer? and start thinking Lovely hairdo, it suits her. Or better still, passing me by and thinking nothing at all.
Just as well it's winter, and cold, so I can wear hats and more hats, even inside.
Which has the added advantage of keeping my hands off my head. Having a rather enticingly soft stubble is as bad as having a new gap in your mouth which you can't stop searching for with your tongue, just to check it's still there.
Yep. Just checked. Stubble, short on the sides, shorter on top. Still there. Still as short as it was this morning. And this lunch time. And this afternoon. Where's the magic wand when you need it?
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| The Mature Gentleman look |
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