The Big Bald

“Let’s just do it.” I said.
“You sure?” Barbara asked, electric trimmer in hand.
“Yeah. No point delaying the inevitable.”

I sat on a chair in the middle of the kitchen wearing a large trash bag for protection. What can I say? It was a look. This was the best room for sweeping up hair, since the floor had ceramic tiles. Even though I had no qualms regarding what we were about to do, I was oddly anxious. These were uncharted waters: now my cancer would be externally visible. I steeled myself. “Go for it.” I held a mirror in my hand. I wanted to see the transformation.

My astrological sign is Leo. Leos are proud of their hair. Our manes declare our confidence and standing – in our own minds. But now I was about to become maneless. How would I feel? I was annoyed at myself for being preoccupied with something so superficial; so trivial. My anxiety mounted.

Barbara started from the back of my head to the front. I watched mutely as locks of my hair fell and sections of my scalp became visible. The whirring of the razor now seemed ominous. I had a wild impulse to bolt from the chair and shout, “Leave it be!” The process felt ritualistic; it echoed of all the women that had done this before me. A rite of passage. The moment was surprisingly somber: a realization that now the exterior would reflect the interior.

It was like every army recruiting film you’ve ever seen. At one point I looked very punk – severe sides leading to a wild patch of hair sprouting from the center of my head. Amazing how much hair affects your looks. As more of the hair fell, I begun to look like a convict. Happily, I could now see that my head was rounded, not lumpy and square as I had feared. A small comfort.

When Barbara finished she said, “Well?” I could see she was proud of the job she had done. Poor girl, I was pretty confident this was the first time she had shaved someone’s head. I smiled but didn’t say anything. I felt naked, exposed. Unexpectedly overwhelmed by how something so little affected me.

The buzz cut felt like a tightly mowed lawn. But even though it was nice to have this Velcro-like hair on my head, I knew I’d have to remove all of it. My scalp had become so sensitive that any hair pressing back into it made me wince in pain and discomfort. I ran upstairs to shower. While there, I lathered up my head and stepped out, taking my razor with me. The vanity mirrors were fogged so I wiped a circle in the center and proceeded to do what I dreaded. The head bleeds a lot, so I was nervous. Any cuts could infect easily thanks to the chemo, plus I was on a very low dose of Coumadin, a blood thinner. No matter, I put my fears aside and plowed on. In a short while, I had a smooth, baby bottomed, head. I was done and I hadn’t even nicked myself.

You don’t really realize how much protection hair affords you. Immediately after my triumphant shave, I became cold. Once dressed, I had to dig out something to cover my head with. All breezes felt as if a silk scarf was moving about my head. You might think this pleasant, but trust me, it is not. My newly naked scalp was too sensitive and exposed for any type of contact, even an invisible one.

The biggest preoccupation, those first few weeks, was how to keep my head warm. I’m not big on what I call the “cancer” hats. I have nothing against others wearing them, but for me, it’s a no-go. I originally thought I’d just wear baseball caps, but they didn’t cover the back of my neck. That area needed to be covered in order for me to stay warm. My head was always cold, especially at night. I tried wearing a schmatta (Schmatta (n.) Rags: Don't go out of the house wearing that schmatta. See: Yiddish glossary ) But the knot in the back made it impossible to sleep. I tried putting the knot in the front of my head, ala Tupac, but then the top of my head was exposed. Winter caps were too binding and bulky. Then I remembered that you could put panty hose over your head. Mistakenly, I tried this with a knee-hi sock and rapidly realized that I would have to deflate my head.

I moved on to panty hose. Support hose is not recommended for the same reason as listed above. Finally I settled on a pair of tan hose with enough runs in them to start a marathon. I cut the legs off and tied a knot were the crotch used to be. Now I could go to bed confident that I could keep warm at night, as well as rob a bodega.

Right away I started accosting bald men. Everywhere I went, I’d sidle up to the poor, unsuspecting marks and pepper them with questions such as, “How do you keep your head warm?” “How do you get it so shiny?” Or, “How do you keep your scalp from drying out?” To which they would usually reply, “You get used to it.” To the shine question, only one admitted to using a product to make it so. Don’t ask me what it is, I don’t remember. As for the dry scalp, one gent said he used cocoa butter. This, of course, sent me immediately to the nearest store to pick some up. Now people can’t figure out why they begin thinking about the beach whenever I walk into a room. It didn’t matter what the event was, no bald-headed man was safe from me. After a while, they began to sense me moving their way. They would scramble like a herd of antelopes at the approach of a lion.

Friends came to my aid. Every other day, various head coverings would make their way into my growing collection. I’m now the proud owner of several nylon swim caps, wig caps, du rags – in many colors – and one odd, striped cap. It’s very reminiscent of the beanie hats, with the propeller at the top. If it was more comfortable, I’d wear it all the time. Eventually I found a soft, cotton cap from a street vendor. He placed it on my head himself, lovingly. Eyes filled with the wonder of someone who had never touched a bald woman’s head. I was grateful. I thank all those wonderful friends, as well, who made it their mission to help me in my quest. I am forever in debt to their single-mindedness and generosity.

©2006 Annelise Pichardo