When a haircut isn’t JUST a haircut

My husband has been after me about my hair. For several weeks now he has been making comments, once subtly, but now blatantly suggesting that I get it trimmed.

“It will make you feel better,” he says, but I suspect this is more about him feeling better.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, leaving the room so he can’t see my tears.

From the kitchen he continues to argue his case. “Just around your ears,” he says, then adds, “and in the back.” I wonder if he’ll be bold enough to suggest that I dye it blonde again, too. Thankfully, he doesn’t go there. He already knows he’s asking too much of me.

Out of sight in the bedroom, I sob because he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand that the mere thought of cutting my hair causes anxiety so severe I begin dry heaving. I’ve waited what feels like an eternity (though in reality was just four months) to have hair again. Looking in the mirror each day and seeing that my hair resembles nothing close to the hair I once had makes me want to hold on to every single strand I now have for dear life.

“Just a trim,” he continues, pleading now.

I ignore him. He can’t empathize. I cherish this weird haircut that isn’t a haircut because it’s simply all the hair I have. Since the day of my diagnosis, when I suspected I would need chemotherapy, I’ve patiently and painstakingly waited for this hair to grow. Now it is here and I cannot fathom parting with it.

As I told my mom the other night on the phone after sending her the latest selfie, “I look less like cancer now and more like — “

“A dyke?” she said in an insensitive attempt to helpfully finish my sentence.

“No,” I said. “I was going to say a hipster.” But now I know what you really think. I wondered if this was what was also in the back of my husband’s mind and thus fueling his relentless lobbying. Maybe the two of them were in cahoots. Irritated, I thought, What’s wrong with looking like a dyke? Why is that a bad thing? How come just because I am a woman with short hair it’s assumed that I am a lesbian? Like, what the fuck?!

I know what I look like to people right now. But I like my hair because it feels edgy and fierce and weird and special. I like that it is soft. I like that it is low maintenance. I like that the color is mine, all mine. I like that each strand is virginal and pure. I like that I simply have hair again. I like that now when I turn off the water in the shower and just before I step out, I have enough hair on my head to actually squeeze some moisture out. I like that I have to run the towel through it a few times to get it dry. I like that there’s enough of it to make a little mohawk. I like that when we are having sex, there’s enough for my husband to run his hands through and grab. I like that my hair represents rebirth and survival and the fact that I am fucking alive.

But I also hate it because it’s me, but it’s not me. I hate that I look like a boy. I hate that my color is mousy. I hate that I don’t feel feminine and beautiful in the way that I used to. I hate that I don’t get checked out anymore. I mean, I am stared at on the train as people try to figure out what my deal is — this woman who’s dressed like a girl, but with the haircut of a dude — but I’m not looked at in that I-kinda-wanna-bang-her way. While walking through Central Park on the way to see my oncologist, a young man looked at me and called, “Fagette.” Thank you, Urban Dictionary, for categorizing me so cruelly. Where’s your entry for a young woman who recently underwent chemotherapy for breast cancer and is just trying to get through each day, looking like some semblance of her former self, while her body figures its shit out?!

Today my husband mentioned my hair again. “Sweetie, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you are starting a new job and I think you should consider getting your hair trimmed to look more… professional.”

I looked up from my mug of green tea and stared daggers at him. Why couldn’t he let this go? It’s my fucking hair.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I said, again.

I don’t remember exactly what I said next or exactly what he said next, but I do remember him making a comment, meant to be a joke, about how I looked like David Bowie and I remember crying and saying, “Fuck you!” and him saying, “No, fuck you,” and then I thought, This is exactly how our therapist would not want us to speak to each other, but not caring because I was angry and hurt and tired of this same damn conversation about my stupid hair.

Tired of arguing, I made an appointment. I returned to the same salon where I’d buzzed off my long, blonde hair before starting chemotherapy. Climbing into the chair, I felt sick to my stomach. I watched in sad silence as pieces of hair fell onto my robe and floated to the floor. Each chunk looked too big — how much time had it taken to grow that small amount? Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes.

There’s lots more of it on my head still, I told myself. This is a painfully necessary step in the process of healing and forging a new life after cancer. This is the first of many haircuts. You don’t want to look like David Bowie. No, seriously, you really don’t.

I am now patiently growing my hair into a chic Carey Mulligan-like pixie. I’ve since endured two additional hair cuts. I hate to admit it, but my husband was right. Though I cry the entire time, I do feel better after each cut — a little more feminine, a little more like myself, a little bit further away from cancer.