It’s been a struggle, looking in the mirror every morning wondering who that gray haired woman is that is staring right back at me. She looks, well…OLD.
I mean, I’m no spring chicken according to my driver’s license, but I simply want to look like I FEEL. Younger than my driver’s license, and still a relevant member of my generation in spite of the toxic cancer drugs they pump into me every three weeks. All this gray is nothing more than a bold reminder that I’m forever living with cancer.
So, after much angst and with the approval of my oncologist, I met with a hair color specialist. It didn’t help that she immediately told me that she loved my gray.
But I don’t feel like me, I told her. So she explained that with never ending toxic drugs, my hair has been through a lot.
No shit, Sherlock (I said to myself).
To clarify for those of you who don’t really understand: my hair died with chemo and rather promptly fell off my head, then with a change of chemo drugs some 4 months later, it slowly (very s l o w l y) re-appeared but with a different texture and a whole lot more gray than it’d left with. Apparently while on hiatus, my hair decided to return with more curl and more ‘maturity’. And I’m just not a fan of being pushed through the aging process faster than what would be the normal progression without cancer in my life.
We chatted for thirty minutes, the specialist and I. I showed her pictures of my hair before it all fell out. It had some white, but it had way more blond. It didn’t make me look older than my driver’s license, and it made me feel like all my friends look: healthy. So, we discussed all the options. Not many of them, really…but as we spoke, it became clear that the best option was really the first option and the most obvious.
I made the appointment and I’m going to have that gray tweeked. Yup, I’m not going to make it go away, because that would be impossible. But I am going to trust in magic, and find me a look that enhances the best of the gray, yet diminishes the worst of it (the salt/pepper drabby ashy colored stuff…which there’s plenty of). Fingers crossed this magic doesn’t elude me. Toes crossed, eyes crossed…dead mango branches swinging from the awnings on a northeasterly rotation while the clock strikes six minutes after midnight. Whatever it takes…MAGIC. I want it.
I know this is a bold move on my part; regaining control of my hair. Honestly? I just want to move through my daily routine feeling like a better version of myself, and not some imposter staring back at me every single time I catch my image in the mirror.
Is that too much to ask? No. I think not.