Hair seems to be a big deal in our house. My boys have gorgeous long hair. Haley has the hair I always wanted when I was growing up. Alia has had an awesome rainbow mohawk and her hair has spent less time its natural color during her lifetime than some fanstastical color or three. When we met, my husband had the same luxurious long flowing wavy hair that my boys have now.

And then there's me. I could never get my hair to cooperate with anything I wanted to do with it. As a teen, I fussed over my hair to no end, trying to get it to look at least a little bit cool. In college and well beyond, I colored my otherwise boring hair anything from neon purple to auburn. 

And then Remicade happened. Shortly after my second or third dose of Remicade, my hair started falling out and breaking. I tried different things, but nothing helped the situation. And so I shaved my head. The first time, I shaved it completely, just a little peach fuzz left. More recently, I've shaved it very short, but not that short. Or I should say, my husband and my younger daughter shave it. 

Alia takes great pleasure in shaving my head. My husband, not so much. 

People ask me if I miss my hair. Not really. It's just hair. If I "kept" my hair, I'd be picking hair off of everything. It's bad enough using my smartphone and having to blow hairs off the screen every few seconds when my hair is getting "too long" and therefore breaking more. Hair would be nice. Mobility and quality of life are more than a fair exchange for my hair. 

Today, I am grateful for children who let me twirl their hair; for a husband who prefers me with hair, but will shave it anyway; for bandannas, which keep my head warm and from getting sunburn; and for children who admit that I look funny, but love me anyway. 


Popular posts from this blog

Marty's Corner

High Functioning

Killing Me