Chemo Curls

They didn’t tell me that, when my hair regrew, it would be more wonderful than it had ever been. They didn’t say that, when the initial, silvery fuzz got longer, thicker, that it would transform into tight ringlets that would lift and bounce about my head. They didn’t tell me that everywhere I went, people would remark on my pretty, coily curls as though they had never seen such things before, or that they would sometimes not be able to stop themselves from reaching out and touching them.

They did not tell me that I would take pleasure in styling them gently, faultlessly, with just a slick of transparent oil after a shower. I began to think, you see, that this is who I have always meant to be – a curly girl! That by some magic, this is the late fulfilment of childhood longing. Those many hours spent fruitlessly scrunching my weak waves into what I hoped hard would become a voluminous bloom of spiralled locks, if only I imagined it so, and applied enough mousse. No, this, now, is the compensation for my only ever desiring curly-haired men, and wishing my future daughters would take after them.

This is the gift, it seems, my reward, for the pain, for the loss of my spring, and summer. This is the payment for months spent with scalp exposed to the weather, shivery, or concealed and sweaty in scarf or hat. This, my friends, is the most painful perm a person can get, and it is glorious! What sweet delight are curls like these, making me newly vain, encouraging me to linger over shelves of shampoo. Making me fondle the coloured contours of their bottles while I weigh over their promises - their pledges to maximise, volumise, and strengthen. Rosemary to enhance and mint to freshen. Thick masques to soften dry ends, to restore lustre, shine and add definition.

I love them best when they drop in corkscrews around my face like a baroque frame, and when they bob about my forehead as I laugh and gesture in conversation, animating and elevating my tired expression. They are silverish, but not so much as to warrant dyeing. No, I must not dye this hair, I cannot risk any weakening.

So, stay it does, my new look, worthy of all the compliments and for front-loaded effort. The hours spent in the chair, noxious red liquid piping into my soon-collapsing arteries, as I fill out endless questionnaires: how often have you felt hopeless? Tick the box that most closely mirrors your experience in the last week: all of the time/often/sometimes/rarely/never. It was worth it all, to receive these curls.

Except, today, when I glance at my reflection, I see a newer, more unwelcome change. A flattening out upon my crown. My husband says, reassuringly, it happens. He knows. His curls relax as his hair grows longer, the weight of it tugging and dragging those spirals into slackened forms. Except, I fear, it isn’t weight that’s causing my straightening, but dare I say it, the cause is, healing. My follicles are returning to their original shape! The kinks they had, are levelling out. The toxic shock that caused my cells to bend is wearing off and I will be left cured, I hope, and horrifyingly straight!

No more will people say, ‘how luscious’ I look now, how ‘well’. No more will they wonder over my miraculous new do. No longer will I be, an appealing and exotic pet, and soon, even the memory of my curls will fade. I will once again be fine, manageable, mousy. At Christmas, we will sit around, take out photo albums. ‘Hey Mum,’ my daughter will say, ‘remember, you had curly hair!’ And I will say, ‘yeah’, forlornly, remembering. I will say, ‘I once had the hair of my dreams, and it is gone, now, but I have life’.