Tag Archives: hair

Hair Cut I

The time came a few weeks ago for me to stop pretending I was Mark Hughes circa 1993, and have my hair cut.
If I am honest, I had been advised on multiple occasions prior to three weeks ago, to visit a professional hairdresser. It’s an important distinction because my last few hair cuts, if you can call them that have not been by individuals trained in hair. Trained in medicine maybe. Works in TV production for sure. But hair? Not on your life.

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The badly timed passport photo

My last proper haircut, in a salon was on the 9 August 2012. I had different hair then. It was long, thick and straight. Now, I have short and curlies. Thick short and curlies. Again, this is important to note because I have absolutely no idea what to do with curls.

I hate having my hair cut, I always have. Making small talk with a stranger whilst I am forced to look in a mirror, as people are blasting heat all over the place sitting on a pleather chair wearing a waterproof smock for an hour is hardly my idea of fun. If anything, it’s rash inducing. For this reason, I sought advice from my curly haired friends and made a hair appointment accordingly.

When my hair was growing back, I imagined my first real haircut to be a milestone. Unfortunately, my relapse and the knowledge that at some point I will be losing my hair again, sooner than I had hoped, put a slight dampener on the proceedings. The Hairdresser said things like “it will be so exciting to see this grow in” and “look at longer styles you like and we will aim for that.” I did not have the heart to tell him that I did not know how long this curly mop will last. Perhaps it’s because I am not ready yet to admit it to myself. Who knows how it will grow back?

Even though it was not the milestone I had hoped, it was a far more pleasurable experience and one that warranted a trip to Mac afterwards in preparation of my benefit claims. Crucially, he told me what I need to do to style my hair. I now have a diffuser and I know that Head and Shoulders is bad. One of the Blood Taking Ladies informed me today that I am still not using the diffuser properly, but my technique has improved in the last fortnight. Phew. I told her it is a work in progress and one very much dependent on the daily level of back pain and my ability to lift my arm above my head.

The long and short of it is that for the first time in a long time, I can actually tolerate my hair. I am embracing the curls, not so much it’s current volume in this humidity. There is a lot of volume today. I will continue to try embrace it, for as long as I have it. The news on the street is a new drug I have been prescribed can cause some hair thinning, so the curls may leave me even sooner than I had secondly anticipated.

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I tell you something for nothing, I am pretty sure I will regret that passport photo in three years time. I have it for ten.

EJB x

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Regrowth V

Since I last provided an update on the subject, I can confirm that my head is still producing coils. Many, many coils. Several coils of brown hair. Said coils, continue to grow outwards instead of downwards. As I am talking about myself, I do not need to be polite, but if I was being polite, I would say that my current ‘do has ‘volume’. If I was not being polite, I would say that it is a bushy mess that is nice to touch. One might be mistaken for thinking I have a perm. People have mistaken what is going on on top of my head as a perm. It is no perm. It is all natural, if you can say that something caused by chemotherapy, is natural.

I am still adopting the hair growth policy of Leave It Be. It will fall out at some point again, so I might as well use this time to experiment for the next time. All I know is that these curls cannot be styled, they cannot be blow dried. All they want is conditioner and liberal amounts of oil.

The coily curls are like Marmite, you either love it or you hate it. People give unsolicited opinions about it. They do it over lunch, having a drink, on the 7s and on the street.

Wow.

It’s cool.

Perhaps you should go to a hairdressers.

Gosh it is curly.

Can I touch it?

You might need to trim the back.

Clearly, I prefer one type of comment over the other, but the world does not only smell of roses, just look at myeloma.

It needs no more introduction. Birds could live in it.

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After spending an afternoon honouring the late, great Harold Ramis, I think personally think my hair is reminiscent of this;

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I am yet to decide whether this is a good or bad thing.

EJB x

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Regrowth IV

Relax! I know it has been a while, but it is fine, you can relax, my hair continues to grow back. My new hair is not relaxed. It is a curly mofo.

I am a cancer stereotype and my hair has returned curly. It is also thick, but that is no surprise, because it was coarse horse hair before anyway. My favourite party trick at the moment, designed to entertain myself and myself only, is to carry pens or pencils in the curls. I might experiment later and see how many I can fit in there. My head is rather large after all, so I predict I can hold at least three. I’ll let you know. Telepathically.

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Mamma Jones spied on these photos yesterday and appreciated the curls

I have been forced to discover that curly hair requires a different sort of maintenance than long, dark flowing locks. Curly hair does not like hair driers, nor does it enjoy being touched in general, which is difficult for me because I am always looking for something to stroke, even if that something ends up being myself. Anyway, both of these activities result in me looking like I have a single block of brown candy floss on my head. I was advised by the Macmillan Hair Lady to treat my hair like I am of a different ethnicity, and that I am doing. I had to do a Google search. This includes liberal applications of oil. Word of warning, do not touch any fabrics directly after applying for obvious reasons.

I am amazed by the speed in which my follicles are growing. As an exercise in narcissism, I just looked at some photographs of myself from the start of January and I am surprised by the growth. It’s a talking point. I can guarantee that somebody will mention it to me today. They’ll be surprised by the curls, just like I am. I will then have the same conversation with another human being. Mind you, better they comment on my head that my weight gain. Gross.

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Until Part V, this is Hair News signing off.

EJB x

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Regrowth III

Last night, in my not so sweet dreams, I dreamt that when in direct sunlight, the hair on my face appeared to be much longer than the hair on my head, I’m talking male hipster length of beard. It was a megamix of the Twilight franchise. Fortunately, this excessive hair only appeared when I was standing in the sun or on those frequent times when I stand under a fluorescent light. Let’s face it, this was not a dream, it was a nightmare. πŸ™€. Halloween came late for me. The scariest thing about my nightmare, is that I knew that the bristles were there, poking out of my skin even when I was in the dark, and for that there was no cure.

πŸ™€πŸ™€πŸ™€πŸ‘ΉπŸ™€πŸ™€πŸ™€

Now, one should not read too much into dreams, I mean, I have no idea what the one meant the other day where I was on the 7s chatting my work shit, feeling happy. In the case of this particularly dream, I will hazard a guess and say that the unwanted regrowth on my chin, lip and general lower part of my face is making me feel self conscious, manly and ugly, and those do not a confident woman make. Well, that, or it could just be because I was looking at photographs of some fine trannys before I turned off my lights.

Damn you social networks. Damn you steroids. Damn you menopause. I think I really need to listen to some Shania Twain. If only I did not hate her music so…

EJB x

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Regrowth Part II

For most people in this fair land, hair grows. It grows and you have it cut, shaved, waxed or lasered. I am nowhere near the former, but I am most definitely in need of the rest of them, for my hair is growing back with a vengeance. Everywhere.

Everywhere I look on my body, hair is coming back thicker and denser than it ever has. Only on my head and on my brows is this a good thing. Okay, my eye lashes too. I appreciate that these are growing back, even though they currently look like I was a victim of a subtle practical joke involving a pair of scissors. Gone are my Chinese brows of yesteryear and in are black slugs. Maybe they are not slugs yet, but they are going to be something the TOWIE’s would be jealous of. I think the miracle gel known as Lilbrow assisted this framing device.

As for the rest of me? Well, save a miracle, I am not far away from a five o’clock shadow. If the hair on my head grew as fast as the hair on my chin and upper a lip does, I would be an almost happy women. At some point in my future I would like a man to stroke my face and then cover it in gentle kisses, but the mood will be somewhat ruined when the mythical man encounters my whiskers. Oh and my fingers and toes…. I really do not know why anybody would need hair here, but my body has decided that I do. I really do not want to look like Robin Williams. The fault belongs to drugs I fear. Steroids and chemo. Life may be easier for a man, but that does not mean that I want the appearance of one. It’s a shame. Any man, would have to be a brave one/have an unfortunate fetish.

The hair on my head is progressing nicely. I have discovered that grey hairs grow faster than my dark shade of brown ones, but even those now cover every part of my head. We are almost at the stage where my ‘do looks optional. We all know it is not, but right now, I thoroughly enjoy stroking it. It’s like having a rabbit on my head. A nice, soft rabbit. Who knows what next month is going to bring? A yeti?

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Wig Maintainance

The one and only benefit to being a baldy unless you are Bruce Willis, is the speed with which one can get dressed. Not having to wash and manage my wonderful, former mane has saved about an hour per wash (I don’t want people imagining that I was doing anything wonderful with it, like brushing it 100 times, I had a life, that was simply, necessary drying time). These days are quite different, I can officially was and go. In and out. The introduction of fake eye lashes to my regime may change things slightly, I am told they require precision which I do not have, but for the moment, when I have energy that is, I am speedy as my foundation brush strokes will imply. Speedier than I was anyway. I still have to decide what not to wear.

I had failed to recognise something however, when it comes to my new regime. It is a relatively simple thing. The guidance came on one side of A4 after all. The simple thing is, washing the wig or in my case, wigs. Until today, I thought that the need to do so, had not yet arisen. I was contemplating it, but it was not yet something I felt was sufficiently urgent for me to spend my energy credits.

The majority of my wigs are straight and in terms of cleanliness, I am looking out for two things; grease and smell. I have not witnessed either. Today, I witnessed something else entirely, deep within the depths of my curls and that my friends, is the little known problem of the dried spider. In some territories, I believe they call it the candied spider, due to the sticky surface which imprisons the spider in the synthetic weave before it is placed in a hot room in front of a window in the middle of summer to die. If you are still uncertain about what happened this morning, let me enlighten you. As I repositioned my wig on my head, I discovered on the fringe, to the left, something that resembled a knot, but it was actually a long gone to the after world spider. An animal. In your real hair one gets lice. In wigs, you get dead spiders. Apparently.

Clearly, I am now concerned that my wigs are mass graveyards and I will be attempting to rectify that in the near future, if I feel that way inclined. However, I am well aware of who I am and my limitations. So should you be. The most recent evidence supports my recent theory, that I am, one big, dirty, rat bag. It’s not because I have cancer.

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Exhibit A

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Exhibit B

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The Wire Haired Fox Terrier

My hair is growing back. It’s a true story. I was told it would and what do you know, it is.

I was also told that it would come back wonderfully soft, like babies hair. This is not happening. No. Perhaps the reason for this is because I failed to lose all of my hair, or perhaps it is because I am genetically cursed to have hair so coarse that it resembles the coat of a wired head fox terrier. That’s right, I am walking around with a dark shade of brown head of animal hair on my head. No amount of conditioner can hide the fact that I have a thickening rug of short and curlies visible for all the world to see. My long hair hid the fact that my hair has the consistency of straw, but now it is short, there is nowhere to hide. There is also, nowhere to hide my grey hairs. Apparently, I have more than I thought I had, though, I suspect my eyes are lying to me on this subject.

It is fortunate that I do not have a significant other, because if I did, they’d obviously had the constant desire to touch me, and if they ever accidentally stroked my head, the wire carpet would cut their hand. So… Small mercies, lads.

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Pubes with Headphones

Thanks Mum. Thanks Dad.

Oh well, it’ll all come out again soon. It’s a shame then, that I currently require a hair cut. The bits at the back are bending and I really do not have a clue what to do about it. Ah, the stress. Ah, the vanity.

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The Six Year Old Boy

For the last few days, my new hair cut has reminded me of something. Something familiar, but I hadn’t quite been able to put my finger on the cause of this recognition. And then, this morning, as I was trying to motivate myself to function, it came to me. It was in my room the whole time… My new hair cut reminds me of me, aged six, when Mamma Jones chose to have her two daughters looking like sons. See?

Not much has changed to be sure.

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Short Bed Hair

Apparently, this is what happens to short hair if your body allows you to toss and turn in your sleep.

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It’s a whole new experience. And before you say anything, yes, I forgot to wash my makeup off last night.

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