And by "hair" I don't mean the $500 haircut that requires constant upkeep - I mean my actual, inch-long, strands. Weeks after chemo, I've finally reached the stage in which I don't feel a sense of revulsion when I touch my scalp. Because for the first time in a few months, the hair (mostly) stays in place when I touch it. More importantly, I've had the audacity to try.
I never thought I'd ever appreciate the resilience of a real head of hair. Sure, I've tested its limits in the past (a chapter in my life we will refer to as "sibling throwdown" or "don't touch my socks"). But after many an episode after a shower or nap, resulting in clumps of hair on a pillow or in a drain(sorry housemates), I had forgotten the wonder that is brushing one's hair - without the concern it will leave with your brush. I won't be overly boastful - it's not planning on making any Rogaine commercial endorsements anytime soon. But at least it lacks the look of sparseness it once possessed. I can no longer clearly see my scalp through the individual strands. My spring, when everything else is winter. Things will grow, things will blossom, things will return to their desired state.
Radiation intends to revert the forest back to scrawny saplings it was composed of (trying to hard with this, I know, run with it). But I think I can handle it; knowing that there is, in fact, a spring.
And no matter what the groundhog says, it always comes.
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