Where’s My Hair?

Okay, I’m done.  Done losing my hair.  Monday, February 20th.  I’m tired of my shower looking like Silkwood and my hairbrush looking like a Muppet.  I’m not going through chemo – so the only explanation would be the Tamoxifen or stress.  Only 5.2% of Tamoxifen users experience hair loss, according to my extensive research (googling it – thanks eMedTV), so I’ve decided it’s stress.  Someone once told me that your hair falls out 6 months after the stressful incident.  Well, since I found out about the big C in June and I started shedding like a Persian cat on a pair of black slacks in December – it all works out – right?  My best friend lost half her hair when she was stationed on a stressful public health project on a tiny nuclear bomb testing target of an island in the South Pacific.  Her housemate was nuts, all the food was canned and her front yard was a beach covered in diapers.  Her hair grew back when she came back to the states.

It’s especially unfair because I’ve always been a little vain about my hair; blonde and thick, I was accused of having “Blair hair” more than once in high school.  (You know – Blair from Facts of Life.)

Once when I was overseas – in Lisbon, Portugal, a strange little shopkeeper smiled as he handed me my package and said, “if you leave my country and cut your hair and come back, I will kill you.”  I was so flattered.

A lion without it’s mane?  Samson without his hair?  Hardly.  Scary, annoying, yeah.  And hey – a lot easier to dry.  Besides – it’s going to stop today.

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