KENDRA TOOK A MIDMORNING SHOWER, STILL FOCUSED ON THE shadow. It was on her mind as she awoke through the night and when she finally got up. Lance had explained what it meant, but she had to see for herself. With a Bible app she’d downloaded to her phone, she searched the word and looked up the relevant verses as she lay in bed. Once again, the Psalms were nurturing her soul.
She closed her eyes, remembering the words as water cascaded down her back.
Hide me in the shadow of Your wings.
My soul takes refuge in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge . . .
For You have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy.
That place. She could picture it, nestled under the wings of the Almighty. Sheltered from the raging storm. She was protected there. She could sing there. Or so it said.
How do I sing there, Lord? How do I sing for joy in the midst of pain?
She’d been talking to God a lot lately, questions more than anything, and she had a lot of time to do it. It helped to talk through the pain.
She finished showering and stepped out, wrapping herself in her towel. She removed her shower cap and fluffed out her hair—and a clump came out in her hand. A big clump. Her heart constricted.
Dr. Contee had said that two weeks after the start of chemo, her hair would begin to fall out. A couple of days ago, her scalp had felt a little tingly, but her hair was fine. Now here it was in her hand, like clockwork.
Turning to the mirror, she saw the spot missing the hair. She laid the clump on the sink and carefully touched a different side of her head. Tears welled when another clump filled her hand.
Kendra knew this would be a hard day. Her hair had always been the first thing people noticed about her. She’d worn it various lengths over the years, but mostly long. Although for the past weeks she’d only had energy to let it dry naturally and ponytail it, she liked to wet-set it and sit under the dryer for full, bouncy curls. What would she do now? She could watch it fall out, or cut it all off.
Kendra thought about it as she dressed, wondering whether she had the nerve to do it herself. A barber could do it, but she didn’t want the questions.
She sighed to herself. The questions would come whether she wanted them or not, once her hair was gone. Would she wear a wig? Scarves or hats?
She wasn’t ready to think about all that. It was enough that cancer marched over her breast, growing it, deforming it. Would any aspect of her being go untouched? Would she become a shell of herself? Her arms began to shake as new realities bombarded her. New pain. New emotions. New fears. New awareness of something else about her life that would never be the same. She closed her eyes and held herself.
In the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge.
In the shadow of Your wings I will take refuge.
Her heart repeated it until tears wet her cheeks—and a knock on the door startled her.
She wiped her eyes. “Come in.”
Lance showed himself. “Spinach omelet?”
“I guess,” Kendra said, only because she probably wouldn’t taste it. “But first, can you . . .” She swallowed. “Can you help me cut my hair?” She’d seen him shaping up his own.
Lance came closer, looking at her.
“It’s coming out, and I . . .”
The words caught in her throat. This was harder than she thought. Who would she be without her hair?
“You sure?” Lance said. “You’re ready?”
That was all the trigger her emotions needed. “No . . .”
He hugged her. “It’ll be okay. I’ll be right back.”
Lance returned with scissors and clippers, and even a broom and dustpan. “Let’s go into the bathroom,” he said.
Kendra’s arms wouldn’t stop twitching as she followed him. He put a towel around her shoulders.
“How much are we cutting?” he asked.
She stared in the mirror, her hair hanging below her shoulders, and took a breath. “Cut it to less than an inch.”
When he reached for the scissors, she took a quarter turn away from the mirror and closed her eyes. The scissors closed on a chunk of hair in back, and her eyes closed even tighter. A second later, she could feel it, a weight of hair gone.
Lance moved to another area in the back, and another, then the sides, snipping, snipping. When he moved in front of her and lifted her hair, tears began to fall. Snip. Snip. She heard buzzing next as he took his time, shaping it down to a teeny ’fro.
The buzzing ended finally, and Kendra’s heart beat fast. She turned to the mirror, wanting to see one of the cute fly cuts she’d seen on other women. One of her law school classmates had cut her hair off and gone natural, and though Kendra hadn’t had the nerve to do it, it looked fabulous on her friend. Maybe that . . . please, at least that.
But when she opened her eyes, it wasn’t cute or fly. It was a close cut induced by cancer, a cut that said her hair would keep falling out, and she’d soon be bald.
She stared at herself, unable to move.
Lance turned her around. “You look beautiful.”
She only shook her head. If she spoke, she’d surely cry. And she was sick of crying.
“You said I looked intimidating in high school.” Lance spoke softly.
Kendra looked curiously at him. Where was this coming from?
“You were intimidating to me too,” he said. “You were the girl who had everything—beautiful, smart, popular, family had money, and actually lived in Clayton. I was the poor boy who got bused in.”
He held her with his gaze.
“All these years later,” he said, “part of me still saw you as that. Untouchable. Unreachable. With your hair gone . . . I don’t know . . . It’s like, I see you. And you’re beautiful. Not the beauty I saw before. Deeply . . . beautiful.”
Slowly they moved closer, and the same arms embraced her, the ones that had been helping her, comforting her. But now she was feeling them, melting into them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, backing up. “I don’t want to . . . I shouldn’t have . . . I should just . . . sweep up the hair.”
He went for the broom, and Kendra hastened out of the bathroom to her room. And cried.