In hursuit of progress

Sorry about that. I’ve been in the car all morning (I mean, I had places to go, I wasn’t just sitting in my car like a weirdo), thinking of more/betterer things to say than the version I posted last night. At one point, I was in the B&Q car park (I know; you want my life, and who can blame you), trying to update the blog, thinking how suitable a place it was, what with Chicken being something I do myself , and B&Q being a mecca for other people who are keen on doing it themselves, whatever the ‘it’ might be. Anyway, the vibe was not cross-pollinating and I was gradually tearing my (new) hair out – which leads me nicely on to today’s topic. See what I did there?

I’ve realised I’ve said nothing to you lovely lot since, errrr, November. So either I’ve gone mute, got fingular (made up word) arthritis, or lost the ability to think and then dump that down into words. What the h, no one’s noticed my absence nor would I expect them to. I don’t have a Dec, for a start. Practically invisible, I’m glad to say!

The truth is, lots of long, boring and tiresome things have happened. Appointments, scans, prods, pokes and a handful of belly-busting lol sessions with my beloved Onc, obvs. So let’s bloody dump all that and crack on with the funny side of life!

In previous blogs I’ve said I always needed a catalyst of extreme humour, around the treatment or its effects, to inspire a new post. Stand by!

Last week, I was lucky to be reunited (and it felt so gooood!) with a lovely friend who spends half her life here, and the other way down under. Consequently she has a great hybrid Hants/NZ accent. (#coveringmyselfforrthenextbit).

The last time she saw me, around six months ago, I was hairless, hopeless, listless, fruitless, pointless – as in, absolutely, totally normal, but definitely a bit ragged round the edges from treatment.

I was really looking forward to seeing her again. So she walks into a room of besties, gathered for drinkies, and says, “Oorrl rite Soph, how you goin? Those pubes grown back yit?”

Hil-hair—i—arse!

This is, among many things, is what I love about my closies during all of this lark. Never dress it up, or down. Remember that, mates of people who get this pesky thing.

So while we’re on the subject, by which I mean hair, not what my friend said, I may as well update you. I have some loyal followers who might remember a blog post round about 10 months ago when I likened the charting of my increasing hair loss to the BBCR4 shipping forecast. Now I can’t be arsed to go round Britain (aka me: chemo weight gain has not been kind, lol!) again. The only point of relevance between said forecast and me now is, of course, dogger. This has a point – honest.

During chemo and radio, I lost my head hair in a remarkable fashion. I had a large oval-shaped bald patch emanating from all directions (not just one, Cheryl) around the crown; and a matching one, about 1cm deep, all around my hairline. But oddly, parts of my (pre treatment) shoulder length bob, remained. I say remained; they downsized considerably to thinned out, lank strands – but their presence enabled me to perfect a convincing comb-over, such that unless you were directly above me, you may not have noticed much of a hair loss at all. The receding hairline was a bit of a giveaway though, especially above my ears. With all those factors in mind, the net look was a cheeky combo of Monk, Max Wall and Mohican – which is most convenient for a writer who loves her aliteration. None of this bothered me – who bloody cares, it’s only hairs! That said, and back to you Cheryl, I really wasn’t in a position to say I was worth it..again, whatever it means.

About 6 weeks after the end of chemo, and with the judicious application of Miracle Grow Wonder Shampoo for hair type Chemoid.. it started to grow back. And over the months since, an alarming new look has become mine.  Think permed pubes on Prozac;  thick tufty ringlets; Stringfellow or Pat Sharp after a shampoo and set; a mingin great mullet, ablaze in DARK BROWN. I am Queen of the Poodles, top of the pups. I expect you saw me at Crufts recently – I did rather well.

In fact, I was waiting for a friend in a cafe the other week. A waitress came over and said, “Are you Claire?” “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Oh sorry, it’s just someone has just phoned to say she’s running late and could we let her friend know. She said the friend had dark curly hair”

WHAT??? I felt a shot to the heart, followed by a slow, seething, swirling feeling in the pit of my stomach (which, given the size of that right now, is one which could easily rival a Northern colliery). She thinks I have dark curly hair. That is how she identifies me. I’ve never had dark curly hair. Surely she knows I’ve got straight blonde hair. What is the matter with her?

Well, therein lies the point. Nothing. She’s right. I am the woman in the corner with dark curly hair, so she thought I might be Claire. I realise that I’m either not seeing what stares back at me from the mirror, or rather, not accepting it.

Time to get things sorted and go in search of my former self. There’s a minimum wait to endure post-chemo before you can have any chemical intervention on your head. That moment, fortunately, has come. By just one day, as it happens. Hurrah!

I breeze into the local salon and as is usual these days, I apologise to everyone in the room for the matted tufts and straggly long bits on my head. In fact, every time I meet anyone new now, the first thing I say is, “sorry about my hair”. I want to make it clear that this was not a look I actually chose, because, unlike total hair loss, there can be no obvious explanation for why it looks the way it does.

So I walk into the salon, and luckily, my miracle-worker hairdresser, who is also my miracle friend, is on hand. If anyone can sort this mess out, it’s her. But still I’m blathering on. “I hope this is the doggie grooming parlour!!  Can you do poodles?”

“Look around you love, we can sort out any old dog in here!” says she. Although I must say, there was a distinct air of the Woodhouse about her when she pointed at the chair and told me to sit.

Some hours later I emerged with the same curls, but now straightened, tamed, and in a more familiar, fairish hue. She even put my hair up for me, in my usual old (former) style, bless her heart. I walked out of there feeling like a millions dollars. To be fair I was probably high on bonios, but I didn’t care. I felt like old, proper me.

Naturally it doesn’t stop there, this regrowth lark. My legs – or should I say RUGS! -have been waxed twice!!! Yes! I’ve  never been so happy screaming my head off in pleasure at the pain!

Gone are Cheryl’s sexy senorita false eyelashes – my own are back, thicker, darker and longer; even my old lady chin hairs have put in a sterling effort to reappear as coarse and unshiftable as before. The only hair that hasn’t returned is the stuff under the arms, which is absolutely fine by me.

If you’ve got a friend or relative who is suffering hair loss because of this treatment, please do tell them to take heart. It does come back. It takes time, but it happens. It is the upside to that particular downside – and there’s always an upside, if you choose to look for it and then focus on it. I’d highly recommend that you do.

Follicle news just in:

Hair update: remember those nose hairs, that I didn’t know I had until I lost them? Hmm. Looks like the strimmer will have a lot more to do than the lawn edges this bank holiday weekend.

Have a wonderful Easter my friends xx

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