Hair today, gone tomorrow

I have big hair.

Everyone knows it, apparently. When Hayden was in preschool, he completed one of those all-about-my-mom surveys for a Mother’s Day gift. His teachers read him a list of simple sentences and asked him to finish them. His responses were precious. I remember being amused at which facts my then-four year old actually got right (that my eyes are green) versus which ones he believed to be true (that my favorite TV show is Thomas the Train). My favorite was his response to the obvious color-seeking question, “My Mom’s hair is...?” Oh, that would be “Big.”

I had told the kids a while back that I’d be getting a wig. I just wasn’t in any hurry to find one. A couple of weeks ago, after taking a long, hard look at my hairline, Camryn made an announcement over her breakfast cereal. “Mommy, I think you should get a wig with no gray in it,” she said. Hmmm...really? Because since I’d stopped coloring my hair these last couple of months, I thought everybody was loving my tell-tale roots.

Dr. Blair had told me it would take approximately 15 days from my first round of chemo to lose my hair, and he gave me some fliers from wig shops in town. Thus began a series of discussions among my friends and family -- should I take control of the situation and just cut my hair super-short, maybe even shave my head? How soon should I go wig shopping? Would I need to be bald to get a wig, or even just get measured for one?

I didn’t know the first thing about how to do this. No gut instinct. I kept waiting for some evidence of hair loss, but nothing happened. Cutting my hair off before it even showed signs of disappearing seemed like bad luck. I mean, what if I were part of a small percentage of people (overly optimistic, I know) who don’t lose their hair to chemo? Then I would be stuck, voluntarily bald. It wasn’t a chance I wanted to take.

So, just in case, I made plans last week to go wig shopping with my friend Randi. Randi’s a native New Yorker who can take on absolutely anything and still manages to find humor in it. She makes me feel strong. And, lucky for me, she’s been a designated wig shopping buddy for other friends who’ve battled cancer so she actually knows how the whole process works.

When I took the class on chemotherapy at Stanford, I learned the technical name for a wig worn by cancer patients -- it’s called a cranial prosthesis. With a name like that, you might think this is an item covered by health insurance. No such luck. I contacted Blue Shield twice -- the first time, identifying myself as a cancer patient in need of a wig (before I recalled the technical name), and a second time to inquire specifically about a cranial prosthesis. Both times I was told there was no coverage offered, because “it’s not considered medically necessary.” How insulting! Randi agreed, and then made a most generous offer. She wanted to pay for my wig -- as an early Christmas present. What an amazing friend.

There was only one wig shop in town open on the Monday after Thanksgiving -- a strange place in an even stranger strip mall, tucked next to a liquor store. It felt old and looked more like a costume shop. Randi commented that some of the wigs looked like stuffed animals. The mannequin heads, dripping with big blue eyeshadow, were easily from the 1950s and so was the shop owner. She couldn’t quite grasp that I was shopping out of necessity and kept recommending only partial wigs or alternate hair colors. Randi stepped in and made it crystal clear that I needed replacement hair, not just a new look. Are there really that few women in their 30s shopping for wigs out of necessity? It was starting to seem that way.

Wig shopping is really not that much fun, when you’re shopping out of necessity. If I were looking for something to wear temporarily -- say, to a costume party -- I’m sure I would have felt differently. The problem was, I just wanted to look like me -- you know, the one my kids call “Mommy” and who Josh occasionally refers to as The Wife. All the styles I tried on looked like costumes -- the super straight bob cut, the super straight shag cut. I don’t have super straight hair. (Been trying to achieve that for years, but without any luck.) Where was the big hair?

Finally, we found a style that somewhat resembled my own head of wavy hair. The shop owner placed it on my head and began styling it into some crazy Loretta Lynn look. Randi saw the glum look on my face and suggested that maybe I could try styling it myself. I ignored the comb and instead began working my fingers through the thick, wavy hair. Then, surprisingly, in a matter of a few minutes, it started to look like me. Randi just stared and asked, “How did you do that?”

There was only one problem -- the display wig wasn’t even close to my hair color, so I’d need to have one ordered in the right color. But the wig shop owner said it would take 14 days to arrive. The idea of waiting two more weeks made me feel panicky. In that much time, I could be completely bald...bald as a baby, just like I told the kids. Randi slyly scribbled down the ordering details for style and color, and we took off. Mission not quite accomplished. We agreed to regroup on Wednesday and try another wig shop.

But on Tuesday, I ran my fingers through my hair and a handful of long strands detached from my head. Yikes. Better figure out this wig thing, and fast. I called the telephone number of another shop listed on the flyer, Wigs R You. Randi had mentioned this was the best place in town. When no one answered, I left a desperate-sounding message on the answering machine, rattling off all the details on that wig I’d found at the costumey-wig shop.

I’d learned at my routine blood check that my white blood cell count had been plummeting (an expected result of chemo), so began receiving daily shots at the oncologist’s office to help boost it back up. Later on Tuesday, while I was waiting to get my shot, Dr. Blair walked past. “Are you trying to make a liar out of me?” he asked. I must have looked confused. He pointed to my big hair and said, “What’s all this still doing here?” I assured him that it was starting to fall out, but I was still looking for a wig.

I knew that Randi and I had made plans to continue our quest the next day, but I found myself getting anxious. I searched the Web and even found a place online that carried the big hair wig, but the “no returns” policy made me hesitate. Finally, I placed a second call to the shop where I’d left my earlier phone message. The woman on the phone said they’d be happy to see me and made an appointment for my visit after lunch. An actual appointment. It sounded like a more legitimate business already. This time, I was ready and willing to go alone. Maybe there was something even better waiting for me.

As I drove across town to wig shop #2 and pulled into a parking space, my cell phone rang. It was Randi. She was calling to tell me that she’d also contacted wig shop #2 to inquire about the wig we’d liked. The owner told her that since it was the second request she’d received, she would order it and it would arrive THREE days later. Once again, Randi had made it happen (just like she always does). I laughed and admitted to her that I was already sitting in the parking lot, waiting to go inside. She wished me luck and we agreed to meet back there on Friday to check out the wig once it arrived in my color of choice.

When I stepped inside, I couldn’t believe it. Wig shop #2 was more like a fancy bridal salon. There was soft background music, tasteful holiday decorations, and the smell of cinnamon in the air. Beautiful, cherry-wood armoires and dressers housed a variety of scarves, hats and accessories. My appointment was with the owner, Cindy, who talked with me like a supportive aunt. While she showed me some other styles, I could tell that she approved of my original choice. (And I got a good laugh out of testing that same style as a blonde.) Cindy agreed that I needed to feel like me, and not someone else, right now. I thanked her for ordering the wig to arrive so quickly, just based on two phone requests. She said she knew it must have been important and took it as a sign to act fast.

Cindy also pointed out that, whenever I decided I was ready, there was a private room where one of her employees could cut off my remaining hair. My eyes teared up at the very thought of it. Just then, a cheerful woman arrived who knew Cindy. At first, I thought she was a customer. She was very friendly, offered good feedback on my wig choice, and chatted openly about the wig she was wearing. I was intrigued that she was so willing to share her experience with me, at one point even removing her wig to show me what her new hair growth looked like underneath.

Her name was Carolyn, and she explained she was battling cancer for the third time. She had overcome breast cancer, then brain cancer, and now was facing cancer in her liver. All the while, she kept a smile on her face. Finally, she shared her connection to the wig shop. She had started out as a customer, but now works there part-time. “They shouldn’t even pay me,” she confided. “I have such a great time being here.”

Carolyn asked me what kind of cancer I had. I told her about it, how it was pretty rare, and explained that I had an oncologist here who was following protocols set by docs at Stanford. She wanted to know who my oncologist was, and when I told her it was Dr. Blair, her smile grew even bigger. “He’s my doctor, too,” she told me. “He’s kept me alive for nine years now.” She had so many good things to saw about him, specifically how progressive he is and willing to have her try new drugs that many patients had not yet had.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d never met anyone who’d even heard of Dr. Blair, let alone been a patient of his. My tears flowed openly now, but they were tears of comfort and relief. I knew I was in a safe place. And that I was meant to show up that day.

Before I left, Cindy the owner gave me a big hug and handed me an angel pin. “There are angels all around us,” she told me. I told her I was more sure of that than ever before.

My wig arrived Friday, just as promised. When I returned with Randi to pick it up, Carolyn was there working and I got to introduce these two very special people to each other. Again, I was offered an angel pin. But this time, I made sure it landed in Randi’s hands. My wig shopping buddy and dear friend had most certainly earned – and exceeded – angel status that week.

I wore my new wig home, with my soon-to-be-departed hair tucked inside. The kids and Josh loved it, and Camryn said she could tell it was a wig because there was no grey. Josh said it looked just like me -- or, rather, a version of me that had just returned from the hair salon.

So, I can still have big hair – even if it’s just on loan. While my own hair takes a little vacation.