Dany
“My hair is falling out,” I say.
I’m hooked up and receiving chemo. Everybody is here.
Sylvie puts down her knitting. Matilda and Gerry stop their conversation.
“Wait until your nails fall out. And the eyelashes,” says Gerry.
“Humph,” says Cleopatra. “It’s called chemo. That’s what happens.”
“I know that,” I say. Annoyed. Then I feel tears. I blink as hard as I can but they won’t go away. They start to fall.
“What’s wrong?” cries Matilda. “Oh no. Don’t cry.”
“She can cry if she wants,” snaps Cleopatra.
“There there, dear,” says Sylvie.
“I’m sorry,” I say between hiccups. I sniff and wipe at the tears and my running nose. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I swipe my hair back from the wetness on my face and another handful falls out.
“Oh!” I cry. I push at my hair and long strands stick to my hands.
This makes me cry even harder. I look down at my fallen hair and sob.
“S-so-sorry,” I cry.
“Bah. Sorry is for losers and wusses,” says Cleopatra.
I cry harder.
“Mine’s been falling out, too,” says Sylvie. “Not in big clumps like yours. More slowly. But I thought about collecting it and knitting a hat.”
“A hat,” cries Gerry.
I choke on a surprised laugh and start to cough.
“You’ve lost your marbles,” says Cleopatra.
I beat on my chest and try to suck in air.
“Oh no, Dany, are you okay?” asks Matilda.
“Of course she’s not. Hannibal Lecter over here just offered to sew her a hat from her own hair. What’s wrong with you?” Cleopatra is in a real lather.
“Not her hair. My hair,” says Sylvie. She throws her hands in the air.
“Excuse me. It wasn’t Hannibal Lecter. I think you mean Buffalo Bill,” says Matilda. “It was Steve’s favorite movie. And Buffalo Bill sewed with skin, not hair.” She shrugs.
Everyone is silent a moment. I stare at Matilda’s apologetic expression.
Then Gerry turns on Sylvie. “Why in the world would Dany want to wear your hair? It’s gray. It would make her look old. Dany has straw-colored hair. She doesn’t want a geezer hat.”
“Straw?” I ask.
“She doesn’t want your creepy hair hat at all,” says Cleopatra. She bangs on the side of her chair.
“The hat is for me,” says Sylvie. She glares at Cleopatra, then at Gerry. “Me.”
“Humph. Then don’t offer it to Dany and then quick as a blink take the offer back. Rude.” says Cleopatra. “Rude and off your rocker.”
“What’s wrong with a hair hat?” says Sylvie.
“Same as what’s wrong with a skin suit, I’d say,” offers Matilda.
I cough and beat at my chest until finally I can breathe again. Then I swipe at my eyes.
Everyone watches me. I look down at the shed hair on my cardigan and pants and a small bubble of laughter bursts from me.
“A hat?” I hoot. “A hat?”
Then Sylvie starts laughing and Gerry and Matilda and even Cleopatra join in.
Finally, we settle into short bursts of mirth and then a happy, comfortable silence.
“Thank you,” I say. I smile at each of them.
Matilda reaches over and squeezes my hand.
She has a wrap around her head. Maybe she’s started losing her hair too.
“I don’t know why it hit me so hard.” I twirl a strand. “Losing my hair feels worse than losing my breasts.”
“That’s because hair is a woman’s identity. Her power,” says Gerry.
I look at her in surprise.
“Really?” I ask.
Gerry nods. “That’s why through history woman have covered their heads. Sometimes all day, every day. Sometimes only in holy places. A woman’s hair is her source of strength, her power, her identity as a woman. Think of all that medieval erotica written about hair.”
“Bah,” says Cleopatra. “Ridiculous.”
“If it falls out, does that mean I’m losing my power?” I ask. It feels that way. I feels…awful.
“No,” cries Matilda.
“Of course not, dear,” says Sylvie.
“Do I look powerless?” asks Cleopatra. She yanks off her knitted hat to reveal her gleaming head, covered with only the finest wisps of jet black fuzz.
“Well?” she asks.
I stare. Cleo doesn’t look powerless. She looks like a five foot nothing, ninety pound giant that could whoop butt every day of the week from sunup to sundown.
“Well, do I?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
“Humph,” she says. But there is a small, satisfied curl to her lips. I’ve made her happy.
“Why don’t we have a party?” asks Matilda.
“I’m not knitting a hair hat,” says Cleo.
“No. A hair cutting party. We don’t have to wait for it to thin or fall out in awful clumps. We can drink a ton of wine and shave it all off.” Matilda’s cheeks are glowing.
“That’s wonderful, dear,” says Sylvie. She takes a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
“Me too,” says Gerry. “I never pass on a party.”
“You’ve all lost your marbles,” says Cleopatra.
“But you’ll come?” asks Matilda. She’s so sweet, not even Cleopatra can resist.
“Humph,” Cleo says, which this time means yes.
“I’ll host,” I say. “You can all come after chemo.”
“Bah. I’m exhausted after chemo.”
“Yes, but I don’t want anyone backing out,” I say. Now that I’ve settled on the idea of shaving my head, I don’t want to lose my nerve.