When I mention chemotherapy to people it is always the hair they ask about… I have only one photo of me when it started to grow back -too much for a wig but too new to colour, I was 41 and it has taken me nine years to accept that that was me
Hair and care and barely there,
I see you stare, not fair…
For years and years it hid my ears,
Shrouded my fears of Dumbo jeers.
A wig, no matter how I try,
Is alien and makes me cry,
And whilst my legs look like they’re waxed,
The rest of me is not relaxed.
A scarf, you say, you do admire it,
It makes me look like I’m a pirate,
And please don’t buy another hat,
It’s kind, but there’s no fun in that.
I must accept an unclothed head,
Uncovered when I go to bed,
Look forward to short grey instead,
It’s only hair -that’s what you said!
The dignity, whilst it remained,
The vanity is unsustained,
A side effect of being cured,
From which I don’t feel reassured…
