Maybe I'm a ginger at heart

I always thought I was meant to be a blonde, maybe because blondes have more fun. But my brother is a true redhead and my sister (his twin) has dark hair with red highlights.

A few of us had fun trying on wigs that one of the gals brought to yoga class this week. I tried this red one on as a laugh, but was surprised to find that I actually liked the color on me.

Maybe it's time to rethink the whole blonde thing, even though Adam tells me there is discrimination in Britain against what they call 'gingers'...

Discrimination against British 'gingers' has them seeing red

Yes, you lose your hair EVERYWHERE during chemo

I really miss my nose hair.

I have to take tissues everywhere because my nose constantly drips.

Not a lot like when you have a cold; just enough to make it really annoying.

The Middle Place

A few people have sent me links to YouTube clips of Kelly Corrigan reading from her book “The Middle Place”. After viewing the videos, I think this will be the next book I read. You can watch the videos at the links below.

The Middle Place Trailer
Transcending: Words on Women and Strength
Going bald: Learning to live without hair

When you get to the root of it, hair loss isn't all that bad, by Sue Hendler

Check out Sue Hendler’s latest column in the Kingston Whig Standard called “When you get to the root of it, hair loss isn't all bad”. You won’t get the benefit of the humorous picture from the column in the online version, so I am including it here. Sue told me that she's proudly wearing a 'Fuck Cancer' hat these days, and I think that's what she has on in the picture, although I suspect it's been strategically cropped for the newspaper.

This is what Sue Hendler usually looks like… with hair. Sue writes a column every second Friday in the Kingston Whig Standard about her metastatic breast cancer journey.

Previous columns by Sue can be found online at the links below.

The elephant in the room: Talking about cancer

My decision to take the first-best medicine
Can I trust that my test results are accurate?

It isn't just doping athletes who get 'roid rage

Spiking the holidays with my Festive Anti-cancer Cocktail

Living with the 'median': I hope time is on my side

If you would like to read other columns by Sue Hendler, click on her name below after "Labels".

More fun with Wigs

I attended a Halloween potluck/baby shower for a co-worker on Friday. We were asked to dress like hospital staff or a pregnant woman.
I was a trailer-trash expectant mother, complete with curlers in my Broom-Hilda wig and a bulging baby bump that read "Property of Billy-Bob... or maybe Bobby-Ray". It seemed like a good idea at the time - at least until I saw the pictures!

Other wigs I've considered:

I'm thinking of knitting my own wig.

For someone who spends most of her time wearing scarves, I do seem to be wig obsessed...

No, I'm not bald; I'm just taller than my hair!

When I was a kid some women wore wigs just for a change of hairstyle. I can't imagine why because they are hot, itchy and uncomfortable. Most of the time I wear a scarf or hat on my head, but there are times when nothing but a full head of hair will do. So I have several options...
The Blonde Bombshell. This is what my real hair would look like if it didn't have a mind of it's own.
Shirley Partridge. This is my backup wig in case I take bread out of the oven wearing the Blonde Bombshell wig. Don't laugh, I did it 10 years ago and melted the bangs into a solid clump.
Broom Hilda. A friend passed this one on for me to use as my 'hat wig'. Wearing a scarf or hat on top of my good wig can damage it (they are very fragile!) so this one will do in a pinch. Even the hairstylist who trimmed it for me said it was rather 'broomy'.

Pretty in Pink. A picture is worth a thousand words.

(see also Run for the Cure)

Hair Today... Gone Today

I knew when I washed my hair this morning it was going to be the last time I’d be needing shampoo for awhile. My hair was coming out by the handful and I had to face the fact that I needed to do something about it by the end of the day or it would all be on my pillow the next morning.

Mary Lou and I went for a walk in the Arboretum in the afternoon. We went back to her place afterwards and it just happens that she has a set of hair clippers, so she went to work. (OK, they are dog-grooming clippers, but at this stage it didn’t much matter). The deed wasn’t as painful as I expected and I’m now sporting a rather butchy-looking buzz cut.
Gee, I sure hope the wig I ordered comes in soon…

HAIR - by Mary O'Rourke

Here's something my friend Mary wrote about yet another lovely side effect of chemo. Thank you Mary, for being my first official "guest blogger".
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I have a bad comb-over. And I am not a used car salesman. I’m a middle-aged woman with male-pattern baldness.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a happy camper and a remarkably vigorous one for someone “living with cancer.” I bike, hike, paddle, ski and travel – with product, hair product that is. When I roll out of bed in the morning, I look like a cross between Albert Einstein and a crested grebe. The wispy bits of hair on top of my head stand on end. It takes time and product to get things slicked down and plumped up just right. Then I’m ready to face the world.

At the beginning, 15 years ago, I had great hair. Long, dark, thick and lustrous. Wore it down past my shoulders to make my skinny-haired sisters jealous. Then the doc announced I had the big C, breast cancer.

A momentous, movie-of-the-week moment. Some people worry about dying. Some worry that they’ll miss little Johnny’s graduation. Others fear spending all their time throwing up. Me, I wondered how I was going to handle the humiliation of wearing one of those creepy little cotton turbans that scream, “Look at me, I’m a pathetic sick person.”

So I got a list of the best rug experts in town. Number one fell way short of the mark. Tammy Faye and Loretta Lynn look great at the Grand Ole Opry, but don’t really cut it on Parliament Hill here in Ottawa. “Do you have anything shorter, more business-like?” I asked the girl. “Most people don’t care what kind of wig it is once their hair starts falling out,” she replied helpfully.

Luckily, when friend Martha and I finish laughing ourselves sick, we find Caralyn. Mature, wonderful Caralyn is a hairdresser with a separate entrance for the follicly challenged. In the inner sanctum, she tactfully suggests a chin-length brown bob. It has a few strands of grey woven in to match my natural colour. The con job works so well that I get far more compliments than I ever get on my real hair.

Fast-forward six months. Summer’s coming and I’m now so sick of the damn wig that I’m ready to embrace my inner skinhead. Which I do, until my hair finally grows back. Same hair, life goes on.

Until the next time, that is. Who knew that a persistent cough would lead to more adventures in hairdressing? But it does. I get a new wig, sail through treatment for the spots in my lungs. And then the cosmic joke strikes. Just as I’m admiring the hair growing in, I realize it’s re-arranged itself, without my permission!

It may not actually be male-pattern baldness, but thanks to the cocktail of chemicals I’ve been treated with, my hair is now thinner on the top third of my head than on the back and sides. Call me crazy, but this annoys me far more than the bone mets in my hip which were later treated, very successfully, with radiation

Well, as my friends say, bad hair is still way better than the alternative. But just in case, here’s how I want my epitaph to read: She died after a long and cranky battle with cancer and hair care.

Click here to read more about Mary (who just happens to look lovely with her less-than-previously-abundant pixie hair cut).