the wells of fancy hair

The steps to my new hairful(less) self, to be revealed to you!

Here's from the first half-shave, a fun photo snapped by my friend Dan:

One new nurse keeps calling me “so cute” and has asked me at least twice how old I am, after which she might as well have slightly raised her eyebrows and cocked her head uttering a sweetly sarcastic “really.” She’s told me three times that I must be 17. It’s fine, but why put me down even the little bit, I have cancer for godssake. She asked me what I do, and I felt a great importance to explain to her what I actually do, a big girl job, I teach and direct children’s theatre, have for over four years—and then added on quickly that I work at a café too. I’m not ashamed in the least bit that I work at a café—and probably will for a whole lot of my life. I love it, and it allows me the time and freedom and lifestyle that I want. But for a split second I was aware that working at a café is exactly what a 17 year old does. Alas. I told her, twice, that it must be the half-shaved head thing.

This is from two days ago, I put on a little lipstick to celebrate my sister's birthday.

"sup world, I'm almost 18!!!!!!!!!!111"

here's one of my family celebrating with my favorite restaurant take-out and cupcakes:

totes goofin'

A FEW HOURS LATER…

The deed is done.

I am officially either joining the army or I have cancer. Who knows which one is worse in my book. But take your pick. As much as it is exhilarating to shave it all off, I still cried. It’s more than having no hair, or shaving it off in rebellion or whatever—which is how I’ve always pictured that I’d do it. I’ve always wanted to shave it all off; I’ve come close with all my weird haircuts over the years, but I’ve never actually gone army. Or, cancer, I guess. It means more than no hair. It’s the undeniable outward showing of what’s going on. Something that up until now has been relatively invisible (except for the weird-smelling BO, that's real, thanks chemo). Here we go. I’m joining the ranks. I have cancer. I have cancer. It still shocks me sometimes. Especially the last few days, which thank god, have been pretty boring medically—I’ve almost forgotten. I feel totally fine. I sit and talk with friends for hours and hours and for a moment, time is suspended and I forget.

But I’m more than this. I’m not cancer. I’m a girl. a human. a writer. a child. an artist. a singer. a barista. a friend. a sister. a daughter.  a baker. a dancer. a hugger. a risk-taker. a fighter. a laugher. a crier. a magic bean buyer.

If you are a dreamer come in.

If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar

A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer

If you’re a pretender come sit by my fire

For we have some flax golden tales to spin.

Come in!

Come in!

-Shel Silverstein